Marked Epilogue
by Serialgal
Summary: Part 2 of the Marked series. Charlie deals with the aftermath of the mental trauma from Marked, while Don goes on assignment to face dangers of his own. Complete.
1. Chapter 1

_**Marked Epilogue**_

_I wrote this in response to a reader suggestion that I add something that deals with Charlie's reaction to the events in Marked, while Don is away on assignment. It turned out to be two mini stories that later converge. One deals with Charlie's struggle with Post Traumatic Stress Disorder, and the other with Don's assignment, where he deals with dangers of his own. _

_I strongly suggest that you read Marked before you read this story. __This story is a work of fiction; any resemblance to characters living or dead is coincidental. _

_Finally, I do not own Numb3rs or the characters, although I do claim intellectual property rights to original story material. This story contains brief references to the episodes Uncertainty Principle and One Hour. These disclaimers apply to all chapter in this story._

_Special thanks to beta, Alice I._

**Chapter 1**

The nightmares started the night before the hearing. The panic attacks started a week later, just before Don left for Houston.

Charlie attributed the first nightmare to the stress of the hearing the next day. Alan had finally gone back to work that week, and Charlie had left for the hearing at FBI offices Tuesday morning as soon as he had gone. By the time that Charlie got back that afternoon, he was exhausted, and he let himself in to the empty house with a sigh of relief. In spite of his physical fatigue, he was wound up mentally, and he grabbed his laptop from the dining room table, plunking down on the sofa. He had to change before his father got back if he didn't want to deal with questions; or worse yet, with fussing, but he needed to sit for a moment before navigating the stairs.

He popped open the laptop, fumbling with the catch. He felt an odd sense of unease, an anxiety in the pit of his stomach, and its very presence unnerved him. He should be feeling less jittery, not more, he thought, especially now that he had made it through the hearing. He sighed, frowning, and pulled up his files. It had to be the lack of sleep. He hadn't slept well in the hospital, and the sleep that he did get had been the product of drugs. The first few days back home, he had still been consumed by the horrible sense of betrayal, and had thrown himself into work with a manic fervor, barely stopping to sleep.

Of course he did sleep Friday and Saturday nights, he thought to himself. The relief that came with talking to Don created a huge emotional letdown, and he slept like he hadn't in years. He pushed down the thought that it had been mind-numbing fatigue that had probably made that possible. Sunday and Monday night were another story however; '_just pre-hearing jitters_,' he told himself. He tapped away at the keyboard, trying to calm his racing mind. He had just made it out of that garage; he'd be damned if he was going back in. _'You have a choice, you know. You don't need to let it take over.' _

He focused on his work, too immersed to realize that he was wearing the same intense, grim expression that had dominated his face the week before.

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Alan pushed into the kitchen, a bag of groceries in hand, and glanced in confusion at the suit jacket on the kitchen chair. It was Charlie's. '_What in the heck is that doing down here?' _he wondered absently. The house was silent."Charlie?"

He set the bag of groceries on the kitchen table, and poked his head into the living room, half expecting to see his son sprawled on the sofa. Nothing. '_Probably upstairs, hopefully napping_.' He turned to the task of unloading the groceries, and set about making dinner. He put the water on to boil for pasta, threw together a salad, and headed up to his son's room. '_Shouldn't let him sleep too late, he'll never go to bed tonight.'_

Moments later he was downstairs, with a puzzled look on his face, headed back through the living room, just as the front door opened. Don poked his head in, followed by the rest of his body as he caught his father's eye. "Hey Dad." He glanced around the room. "Where's Chuck?"

"Darned if I know," Alan said in annoyance. "I was just going to check the garage." He trod briskly through the room into the kitchen. Don sauntered behind, snagging an apple from the basket on the table. He reached the garage just in time to see his father pull open the door, and Charlie whirl from the chalkboard with a guilty expression. His brother was still wearing his dress shirt, with the top buttons unbuttoned, and his tie, which was hanging loosely from his neck. His dress pants were covered in chalk; there was a healthy smudge of it on his cheek, and he looked at his watch in dismay.

Alan frowned, puzzled. "Charlie, what are you wearing that for?"

'_Uh, oh, busted,'_ thought Don. "I guess he didn't tell you either," he said, around a mouthful of apple.

Alan scowled at him. "Why are you eating? Dinner's almost ready." He looked back at Charlie, who reluctantly set down his chalk, and headed towards them, his head down.

"I went to the hearing today." He pushed past them. "I'm going to change."

"A little too late for that!" Alan yelled after him. "Those pants have to be dry-cleaned!" He looked at Don, puzzled. "The hearing? Did he go with you? No, he couldn't have – you were gone when I got up."

"Come on," said Don, heading for the kitchen. "I'll tell you about it. You won't believe what he did."

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Three hours later, they were situated in front of the television. Don was focused on a Dodgers game, and Charlie sat cross-legged next to him on the sofa, working the mouse pad on his keyboard. Alan eyed the curly head bent over the laptop. Sometimes that mind seemed like a complete enigma to Alan, and never more so than lately. He would never have thought Charlie would have had the physical or mental stamina to make it through that hearing, and the idea still amazed him. He couldn't imagine what had possessed him to testify the way he had to begin with.

Charlie had done amazingly well since Friday, he conceded. He did seem a little out of sorts tonight, though, thought Alan with a frown. He had barely touched his dinner, and seemed restless; preoccupied. The laptop was not a good sign either. Maybe he had been doing a little too well. Alan pushed the nagging worry out of his mind. Charlie had had a rough night last evening, and rough day today. He was probably just over-tired.

His eyes wandered to his older son. Don was watching the game intently, but Alan noticed that he sat close to enough to Charlie to maintain contact, almost unconsciously moving an arm or an elbow to touch his brother if Charlie shifted positions, as if to reassure himself that Charlie was still there. Alan smiled as he watched Don shifted his elbow so that it was touching his brother's yet again, as Charlie adjusted the laptop. Don didn't even know he was doing it, and probably would be embarrassed to admit it if he did. '_Good heavens, I think I passed down the hovering gene,' _thought Alan, and his grin widened. It was just so good to have them here, together, and emotion fueled his smile.

Don reached for his beer and caught his father's smirk. "What's so funny?"

Charlie looked up, and Alan grinned foolishly back at them. "Nothing – ah – nothing." The boys looked at each other, and Charlie shrugged and looked back down at his laptop, fingers poised.

Don's gaze lingered on him. "Hey Chuck, don't you think you've had enough of that for one night? Give it a rest."

A fleeting look of annoyance passed over Charlie's face, but he hit 'save' and closed his laptop with a sigh. His eyes rested on the television screen, but the preoccupied look was still there, and Alan got the feeling that he wasn't registering what he was seeing. Now that Charlie's head was up, Alan could see the fatigue in his face. "Charlie, you probably ought to think about bed."

Charlie blinked, and focused on his father with an effort. He was suddenly exhausted. He leaned on the sofa back and shut his eyes. "Yeah, I am pretty tired."

Don glanced over at him, and his stomach clenched. He had a sudden vision of Charlie in the hospital, eyes closed, with the same expression on his face. He looked away quickly, as his brother opened his eyes and lifted his head with a sigh.

Charlie uncrossed his legs and stood wearily, catching himself as he put his weight on his hurt leg, which had stiffened up. He set the laptop on the coffee table, and headed for the stairs without a backward glance, shoulders slumped. "G'night."

"Good night, Charlie." Alan watched him ascend the stairs with a slight frown. "He seemed a little off today."

"Huh?" Don's attention was captured by a double play. He jerked a glance at his father, then back at the TV, and he stared at the screen as he replied. "I dunno. I think he seemed okay. The hearing _was_ kind of stressful – I think he's doing pretty good, considering."

Alan sighed. '_It's probably nothing a good sleep wouldn't cure_.' He glanced at his watch. Almost nine o'clock. He couldn't remember the last time Charlie had gone to bed that early.

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Charlie stripped down to his T-shirt and boxers, and flung himself on the bed, his eyes already closed. No pajamas tonight. He had barely managed to brush his teeth. Too tired. His eyes popped open, and he stared up into the darkness. Too wired. A memory of last night's nightmare brushed his mind like a cold hand, and he shuddered. '_That was an anomaly,' _he told himself, '_brought on by stress. The chances of having another one in a consecutive night are remote.' _The thought made him feel a little better, and he pulled up the covers and closed his eyes. He was physically spent, and it felt wonderful to lie down. Now if only his mind would shut down …

_He sighed, his eyes closed. He must have fallen asleep after all. It was windy outside – he could hear it sighing in the trees. So tired…He jerked suddenly, feeling confined. He couldn't move. Why couldn't he move? He felt the breeze on his face, and he opened his eyes in confusion. He was in the forest._

_He watched the pine trees swaying overhead. The wind was growing stronger – and he felt the beginnings of panic. How did he get here? He tried to sit up but he couldn't move his arms, and he looked at them, finding to his horror that he was wrapped with wire from the shoulders down. He twisted, trying to free himself, but he was bound tightly, and he closed his eyes with a moan, as terror rose in his chest. "Nooo..."_

_His eyes flew open again at the voice. "I've bin waitin' fer you, boy." Mansour's eyes burned into his, and he raised the knife, leering with an evil grin. Charlie recoiled in horror, thrashing, twisting; as Mansour turned toward his feet. Charlie gasped and writhed in one last monumental effort –_

He awoke as he hit the floor, landing on his side, stunned, the impact shooting pain through his hip; which was echoed by the healing muscles in his leg. The sheets were twisted around him; claustrophobia suddenly descended, and he thrashed wildly, clawing his way out of them like a madman, as he fought his way to a sitting position. He sat there for a moment, shaking, his chest heaving, until the sweat covering his body cooled, and turned the shaking to shivering. He looked around the room, dazed, his eyes finally lighting on the digital clock on his nightstand. 12:16.

He stood unsteadily, and collapsed on the edge of the bed, hugging himself with his arms, rocking back and forth slightly. He knew he should try to lie down again, but adrenaline coursed through him, and his brain was starting to race again. The garage was calling him, and he tried to fight it down, but after wrestling for a moment he conceded to a compromise. Just a little time at the boards, he told himself, just a little, to calm himself down, and then he would go back to bed. He reached down and grabbed his sweatpants, pulling them on with trembling hands, and crept quietly out of the room.

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End Chapter 1


	2. Chapter 2

**Chapter 2**

Charlie stood rocking on his heels; a balled fist pressed to his lips, and studied the board. A complex grouping of variables confronted him, and his eyes ran over them, searching, teasing; pulling them apart into subgroups so that he could differentiate them. His mind was still racing so fast that it was getting difficult to concentrate – it would seize a piece of the problem and take off by quantum leaps down a path, dragging him in its wake. He would write the sub-problem out feverishly on another board, and then yank his attention back the main problem, only to be consumed by the next subset.

The board suddenly blurred in front of him; he ran his hand wearily over his face, and turned away for a moment, trying to regain his focus. It not until then that he noticed the dawn light filtering in through the filmy garage window. He looked at his wrist in consternation, only to realize that he wasn't wearing a watch. Morning already. The realization brought a slightly guilty feeling, mingled with relief. No going back to bed now. His mind, momentarily freed from the intense concentration, was now subject to reality; the memory of the nightmare returned, and an involuntary shudder ran up his spine.

No, bed was out of the question. He felt the unsettling anxiety return and flutter in his stomach, like some kind of menacing poisonous butterfly. He turned back to the board, but his concentration had been broken. Coffee. That's what he needed. A good strong blast of caffeine would help him focus. Coffee equaled caffeine which equaled clarity and concentration, and blessed escape from the gnawing unease in his gut. He pushed his way through the door, out of the garage, and noted with dismay that the kitchen light was on. His father was already up. He paused for a moment, finally deciding that the promise of a hot cup of coffee was worth the potential disapproval, and headed toward the kitchen door.

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"Morning," said Alan, as Don drifted into the kitchen. He poured a cup of coffee and handed it to his son, who took it with a weary murmur of thanks. Alan sat and studied him. "Stayed up for the end of the game, did you?"

Don took a sip of the hot coffee and closed his eyes in appreciation. He opened them and stared down at the cup. "No, man, I was beat. It was still tied in the fourteenth inning, when I went up. I guess it was around 11:30." He glanced up as the kitchen door opened.

Charlie stepped in, his head down, and headed for the coffeepot. "Morning," he mumbled.

Don's eyes narrowed; and Alan eyed his youngest sharply. Charlie's face was grey with chalk dust, light stubble and fatigue. Everything about him drooped, his curls, his dust-covered T-shirt and sweatpants; his body itself. "Morning, Charlie. I thought you were still sleeping. What time did you get up?"

Charlie kept his head down, his back to his father as he pulled a mug out of the cabinet. "Um -," He paused, contemplating the coffeepot. "A couple of hours ago, I guess."

'_He's a terrible liar,' _thought Alan, and he frowned as he watched Charlie pour coffee with a shaking hand. He glanced at Don, and saw his frown mirrored on his oldest son's face.

Charlie turned and leaned back against the cabinet, both hands on the mug, and lifted his eyes briefly, guiltily. He caught his brother's and father's disturbed stares, and dropped his eyes, raising the cup to his lips with hands that wouldn't behave. Some of the coffee escaped and dribbled down his chin, and he wiped at it self-consciously. Silence stretched and he tried to break it. "Um, just thought I'd get a little work done-," he offered, unnecessarily. Now he knew how Don's interrogation subjects felt. The unsolicited information hung awkwardly in the air.

His brother took pity on him and picked up the feeble attempt at conversation. "Cognitive Emergence?" he asked. Alan shot him a look that said '_Don't encourage him,'_ and Don lifted his shoulder in an almost imperceptible shrug.

"Uh, no," said Charlie, taking another shaky sip of coffee. "Larry had some back-burner stuff that he wanted me to look at. I've been putting it off." He turned, heading for the kitchen door, anxious to escape. He stopped at the sound of his father's voice, but turned only halfway.

"Don't forget you have a physical therapy appointment at 1:00," Alan reminded him. "Maybe you should set an alarm." Slight sarcasm crept into his voice. "Or do I need to come home and get you?"

Charlie rolled his eyes. "I really don't need those anymore."

"You only have two appointments left," said Alan curtly, "today and Friday. Just go. And why don't you get some breakfast before you go back out there?"

"Too early," replied Charlie, his hand on the door, "I'll get something later. And no, you don't need to come home." He pushed out, opening the door just enough to slip through; and it swung softly shut behind him.

"I told you he seemed off," Alan snapped, as if Don was arguing with him.

Don watched his brother go with an unsettled expression. He ignored his father's tone, knowing what was generating it. "Dad, you've got to expect a little fallout from this. He's not going to get over something like that overnight."

Alan sighed. "I know; it's just that he seemed to be doing better, and it's frustrating to see him backslide. I wish he'd talk to someone."

"I'll see if I can talk him into it," said Don. "But you know; he's not doing all that bad. We've both seen him a lot worse than this."

The words hung in the air like a threat. Alan didn't reply; he was too busy trying to push down a rising sense of anxiety.

Don rose. "I've gotta get going. Hey, I'm probably not coming over tonight. I've got some stuff I have to take care of. Don't worry about dinner on my account, okay?"

Alan sighed. "Right. I'll see you later." Don left the room and he sat where he was, staring at the kitchen door.

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Alan entered the house that afternoon to be greeted by silence, yet again. He didn't bother looking upstairs this time; he headed straight for the garage, noting with a frown that the kitchen looked just as he had left it that morning. He had taken out the trash and the waste basket was still empty. No dirty dishes, not even a granola bar wrapper in the pristine trash bag. '_Maybe he got lunch when he went for his appointment,'_ he thought, but the idea died almost as soon as it emerged, as he pushed open the garage door. Charlie was writing with frenetic energy, still dressed in the chalk-infested clothes that he had worn in the morning.

"So much for your appointment," snapped Alan. "It was too much to expect you to take an hour out of your day?"

Charlie didn't turn his head. He closed his eyes, trying to control his impatience at the interruption. "I told you, I don't need those anymore." He opened them; his mouth set in a tight line, and continued to write, stabbing at the board viciously with the chalk.

"The doctor recommended that many sessions for a reason, Charlie. Or did you go and get a medical degree without telling me?"

Charlie shut his eyes again; took a deep breath, opened them, and turned to face him. "I'm in the middle of something. Can we have this conversation another time?"

Alan stared back at him. He recognized the look – his son's eyes were trained on him but not seeing him, not really, focused instead on something in the back of his mind, glittering with otherworldly intensity. He swallowed. "You need to eat something. Take a break." The anger had left his voice; the words came out as a plea.

Charlie had already turned back to the board, the impatience erased from his face as the equation took over. The intensity remained, however, and the chalk began flying again. "Later," he murmured absently, eyes fixed on the board.

Alan stood for a moment, realizing that he had already been forgotten, and shook his head helplessly. Turning with a sigh, he left the garage, reflecting as he went that the action was redundant. As far as his son was concerned, he was already gone.

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Charlie staggered. He had been on his feet for over 24 hours, and the board was not cooperating. It swam and wavered in front of him like a live thing, and his chalk marks were becoming unintelligible. He dimly remembered his father coming into the garage – more than once, but beyond that he couldn't put a number to the visits. A sandwich sat on the table, two bites taken out of it, the bread long since dried, the turkey warm and beginning to turn slimy. Not that it mattered, Charlie had forgotten it existed. He rubbed his face, losing his balance as he closed his eyes, and jerked them back open again, his feet stumbling in a drunken dance. Drunk with fatigue, intoxicated with exhaustion.

He backed up slowly and collapsed on the sofa, finally giving up the fight, and leaned over on his side, curling his body as he let himself fall. He was asleep before his body stopped moving, engulfed in unconsciousness. It lasted two hours before the nightmares began.

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Alan rolled over with a groan as the alarm went off. Thursday, he thought groggily. The week seemed to be never-ending. He had gone to bed after one – only after he had assured himself that Charlie was asleep. He had left his son on the garage sofa, afraid to wake him to send him to bed. Covering him with blanket, Alan had stood, staring for a moment at Charlie's face. The manic energy was finally gone, swallowed by repose, and Alan drank in the sight of the peace that at last dominated the pale face.

The image lingered in his memory this morning, and he showered and dressed hurriedly, anxious to see how Charlie was doing. He had filled up the coffee maker the night before, and he flipped the switch on his way to the garage as he flew through the kitchen. He flung open the garage door, and his shoulders sagged visibly. Charlie was again standing at the chalkboard, the chalk still moving, but not as fast, slowed by his apparent exhaustion.

"Charlie."

No response. Alan moved to stand behind him, and put his hands gently on his son's shoulders. "Charlie." The chalk stopped moving; the hand came down, but his son still faced the board. "Come here. Sit down." Charlie offered no resistance, and Alan guided him toward the sofa.

They sat, Charlie staring dully at the floor. Alan tried to read his expression, and spoke softly. "Son, I am not sure what it is you're doing, but you need to take a break. You _can_ stop to eat and sleep; and it will still be here when you get back. You know that, don't you?" Charlie shrugged; his eyes still on the floor. Alan put an arm around him; he could feel his son trembling. "You're pushing yourself too hard. Now, I want you to come inside with me, get something to eat, get cleaned up, and get in bed. Look at me."

Charlie raised his head glumly, and Alan caught his breath at the look in his son's eyes. The unfocused look was still there; the perception that his son's mind was elsewhere, but it was now mixed with something else – anxiety, fear. The combined effect was unnerving; there was something irrational about it.

"I want you do this for me, alright?" Charlie turned his face away, eyeing the chalk board for a minute, then sighed and nodded.

"Okay." The voice was soft, defeated.

Alan's gut was twisted with apprehension, but he pushed it down, focusing on the mechanics of taking care of his son. He guided Charlie into the kitchen, and easing him gently into a chair, set about the task of making toast and decaffeinated tea.

Charlie watched him, detachedly. His mind was still going, driven by anxiety that smoldered in the back of it like banked coals, covered, but ready to flare in an instant. The only thing that kept him from refusing his father was the fact that his body was ready to give out, traitor that it was. His father put toast in front of him; he choked it down mechanically, and drank his tea with an unsteady hand.

"Now go up and get a warm shower," said Alan. "Do you want to sleep in your room or on the sofa?" Charlie's eyes drifted toward the kitchen door. "The garage is not an option," said Alan firmly.

"Sofa," sighed Charlie.

Upstairs, he stripped, pausing for a moment to look in the mirror. In the past two days, he undoubtedly had managed to lose most of the weight he had regained. The face that stared back at him was grim, drawn, covered in stubble. His eyes wandered to the thin scars on his chest, and anxiety suddenly flared, clutching at his gut. He looked away quickly, putting a trembling hand on the back of his neck, and turned toward the shower, fumbling with the taps.

He let the water run, and turned back to the sink to shave. The scars caught his eye again, and he slipped on his T-shirt to hide them, and plugged in the electric razor. He normally didn't use it; the stubble returned too quickly if he did, but he didn't trust his hands at the moment. Too unsteady. Too shaky. Like his knees; like his whole body for that matter. He finished shaving and leaned on the sink, head down, arms trembling. What was happening to him? He stripped off his T-shirt again, avoiding the mirror.

The warm water felt good, and he stayed in it longer than he usually did, ramping up the temperature a bit at a time, until the water was almost unbearably hot, trying to drive away the trembling. He emerged, his body flushed with the heat, and dressed hurriedly, in an attempt to hold in the warmth. It took an effort to dress; he was having difficulty focusing, as the food and warmth magnified the mind-numbing fatigue.

Downstairs, his father held out a glass of water and a pill. "Sleeping pill," said Alan. "The prescription wasn't expired; these should still be good."

Charlie took the pill from his father and stared at it for a minute. Taking it meant he was committing himself to sleeping, and the ominous possibility of dreams. His sluggish mind tried to reason. Maybe the pill would keep him from dreaming. He sighed and swallowed it, washing it down with a swig of water, and crawled onto the couch, collapsing and closing his eyes. "Thanks," he murmured.

Alan reached down, covered him with a blanket, and tenderly brushed a wet curl away from his son's face. "Sleep well," he said softly. He straightened and looked at the clock. He would be an hour late for work. He didn't feel like going in at all, not with the way Charlie was behaving, but he didn't have much of a choice. He had an important meeting with a client at ten. Charlie should sleep for a while. He sighed, gathered his briefcase, and, after one last look at his son, let himself out quietly, feeling like he had already put in a full day's work.

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Alan had come home at three, and was greatly relieved to find his son still sleeping. It didn't last much longer than that; although Alan tried to be quiet, his movements had wakened Charlie. Still, his son had been asleep for a good six hours, solid, much needed sleep. Charlie was still distracted, tense, no; more than tense; he was wound tight as a drum, but he had managed to get dinner down, and was now on the sofa with his laptop, pecking at it, completely absorbed.

Alan glanced at him from the kitchen as he cleaned up the dishes. Charlie's foot was crossed over his knee, his foot bouncing up and down unconsciously as he typed; his shoulders tense. His body language screamed pent-up energy, but he looked much better than he had that morning. The phone rang, and Charlie jumped like he had been shot. Alan grabbed the receiver from the wall.

'_Hey Dad.'_

"Donnie," replied Alan with relief. He could have a conversation with one of his sons, at least.

'_How's it going? How's Charlie?'_

Alan glanced through the door; Charlie appeared oblivious, but Alan turned away and spoke quietly. "He had a pretty rough day yesterday, and apparently not much sleep last night, but he took a six hour nap today, and he looks a little better. He's pretty wound up."

There was brief silence from the other end. "_Yeah, I need to talk to him before I go. Megan's going to call him, give him some names of someone to talk to."_

"Before you go?" Alan's heart dipped.

"_That's what I called to tell you about. The whole team is being sent on assignment. We leave for Houston on Saturday. We'll be there a day or two for instruction, and then they'll deploy us."_

"Where?"

"_All I can tell you is that it's along the border."_

Alan swallowed. "How long?"

Silence again. _"They aren't entirely sure, but they told us to make arrangements for a couple of months."_

"A couple of-," Alan's voice had raised, and he caught himself, glancing out into the living room. Charlie's head was still bent over his laptop.

"_I know, I'm sorry, Dad. I know this is a bad time."_

"I'm not worried about that," Alan said quickly. '_I'm worried about you,' _he thought._ 'I'm worried about worrying about you for that long.' _"I just don't like those long assignments."

"_Dad, you don't need to worry about me. There are a ton of people in on this one; we'll have a lot of support."_

"Can you come over?"

"_Not tonight, I've got a lot of stuff to do. I will tomorrow for sure. Tell Charlie I said hi, and I'll talk to him tomorrow night."_

Alan murmured a reluctant good-bye, and hung up the phone. He had been unconsciously clutching the dish towel and he set it down, sighing, as he headed for the living room. He sat down in a chair, opposite his son, his hands clasped over his knees. "Charlie."

His son scowled impatiently, his eyes still riveted to the computer screen. "You know, I could do this a lot easier out in the garage."

"That was Donnie."

Charlie looked up at this, and for the first time in two days, the intensity in his eyes softened. "Is he coming over?"

"No, not tonight." Alan saw an inscrutable expression flit over Charlie's face; his son looked back down at his laptop, and began pecking again. Alan continued. "He's stopping by tomorrow night – he's going on assignment."

Charlie's head jerked up, apprehension in his face. "What? Where?"

"Texas, from the sound of it. The border."

Charlie felt unexpected, unreasonable terror rise within him, and he fought it down, his voice shaking. "How long?"

Alan sighed. "Probably two months. Charlie, he talked to Megan. She's going to call you with some names of people to talk to."

Charlie stared blankly at his laptop, his heart pounding, his stomach churning. He was dimly aware of his father rising and heading for the kitchen. Nausea suddenly overcame him and he tossed aside his laptop, rushing for the bathroom, losing his dinner as a cloud of panic engulfed him.

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End Chapter 2


	3. Chapter 3

**Chapter 3**

Alan felt like crying. Most of the progress he had made with his younger son that day was lost, some of it in the form of his dinner, now in the plumbing, and the rest of it deteriorated when Charlie fled back into the garage. Alan had followed him to the bathroom, and when he attempted to help him clean up, Charlie pushed past him almost violently, and headed for his blackboards.

To top it all off, his oldest son was leaving for God knew where; to participate in God knew what kind of dangerous activity. Things were veering out of control, and Alan didn't see it getting better in the foreseeable future.

It was now midnight, and Alan headed for the garage, determined to drag Charlie inside, physically if need be. He opened the door quietly, expecting to see his son at the boards, and paused in the doorway. Charlie was seated on the sofa, his arms around his middle, hunched, rocking slightly. '_He used to do that when Margaret was sick,'_ thought Alan, '_out at the koi pond.'_ He stepped into the room quietly, and sat next to his son on the sofa.

Charlie glanced at him, his face full of tension and misery, eyes not quite focused, then looked away. Alan watched as his son tilted his head sideways slightly; it was a unique gesture, purely Charlie, and he only made it when he was profoundly upset. He sat silently as his son spoke.

"One can calculate the probabilities of injury for any given activity, knowing the players. However, there are unquantifiable variables. Even if you know they exist, if you can't judge the extent of their influence, it makes it hard to predict the outcome. You cannot determine what decision someone may make ahead of time; you can try, but people make mistakes. Sometimes they make a wrong choice – less likely, not predicted. Therefore, it will be impossible for Don to make plans and develop contingencies for every situation. It is unsolvable. There is no way to assure he'll be safe."

Alan looked at him silently for a moment, his heart aching. He felt his youngest son slipping away by the hour. "No, Charlie, we can't," he said softly. "But we need to have faith he will be." He put his arm around his boy, and Charlie leaned against him, his arms still folded protectively around his middle. "Come on, son. Let's go to bed."

Charlie headed upstairs without complaint. That in itself was a little disconcerting, after his refusal to sleep the previous days, thought Alan. He watched him go, and then headed for the kitchen.

Charlie brushed his teeth mechanically and stripped down to his shorts and T-shirt, stopping just short of climbing into bed. He turned and headed for the door as Alan appeared in the entrance.

"What do you need?" asked Alan.

"Sleeping pills."

Charlie began to push past him, and Alan held out the bottle. "Just what I came in here for." Charlie grabbed the bottle, shook two of them into his hand and tossed them down before Alan could protest. "Charlie – you should only take one of those."

"It says one to two," said Charlie emotionlessly. "Two is better." He climbed into bed like an automaton, lying down stiffly, and shut his eyes.

'_Not for someone with your body weight,'_ thought Alan. He looked sadly at his son's thin form; even prone and under a loose T-shirt, his gauntness was apparent. "Goodnight," he said softly.

"Night," murmured Charlie, without opening his eyes.

Alan stepped softly out of the bedroom, eyeing the bottle of pills. '_Maybe I should take one of these,' _he thought, as he headed wearily for his room.

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"Charlie! Charlie, wake up!" Alan shook his son anxiously, panic shooting through him at the lack of response. He had come into Charlie's room that morning with a breakfast tray, and had tried to rouse him with no effect. Now he was shaking him vigorously, and frantically checking for a pulse. He lifted Charlie's arm by the wrist, and it dropped limply back to the bed. "911, 911," Alan was talking to himself in a panic, as he looked through the clutter of Charlie's room. "Where's the goddamned phone? I knew he shouldn't have taken two of those things."

"Mmmm."

Alan whirled at his son's muffled moan, and saw him stir slightly. "Charlie?" He charged over to the bedside and started slapping his son's face, lightly.

"Sssop," moaned Charlie, his eyes still closed, and batted at the offending hands.

"Charlie, wake up. Open your eyes," commanded Alan, and breathed a sigh of relief as his son's eyes flickered open. They were just slits, but it was a start. The painful pounding in Alan's chest receded, and he took a deep breath. "You scared the hell out of me." Charlie blinked back at him, sleepily.

Alan put his arms around him, helping to pull him to a sitting position, and propped a pillow behind him. His son's head drooped, and he stared at his lap groggily. "You can go back to sleep if you want, but I need you to eat some breakfast first. I brought you an egg and some toast."

Charlie made a face. "Toast is fine," he mumbled.

"You need some protein," retorted Alan. "Take a couple bites of the egg anyway." He positioned the tray in front of Charlie. "I'm staying home today. Later on I'll take you to your physical therapy appointment. I want to make something nice for dinner when Donnie comes." He headed out of the room. "Eat your egg."

Charlie stared at the tray. A cloud had passed over his face at the mention of his brother's name, and the anxiety began its slow, inexorable rise again. The fog from the sleeping pills was clearing, pushed aside by his brain, revving like an engine. The synapses were starting to fire, and the noise in his head began again, quiet still, but beginning to crescendo with the rising tension.

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"Charlie, it's time to go." Alan stuck his head in the garage.

Charlie lifted a hand as if to ward him off, still writing. "In a minute."

"No, Charlie, we need to go now. I'm going to stop and get groceries, drop you off and come back for you. Let's go."

Charlie laid down the chalk, reluctance on his face. He stared at the board a minute; the next piece of the solution was there in his head, ready to be written down. He balled his hand into a fist as if to keep himself from picking up the chalk again, and pulled himself away with an effort.

In the car, away from his boards, he could feel the anxiety ramping up, and he closed his eyes, trying to calm his breathing. The car came to a stop, and he opened his eyes. Grocery store. He could feel his father's eyes on him. "Do you want to come in?"

Charlie's heart gave an irrational lurch. "No, I'll just wait here."

"I won't be long."

Not long seemed an eternity, but it was only minutes. A little over fifteen; 1076 anxious heartbeats.

"Okay," said Alan with forced cheerfulness, "I got steaks, salad fixings, ingredients for twice baked potatoes…"

Charlie's stomach churned, and panic clawed its way up the inside of his chest. "Do I really need to go to this?"

Alan eyed him sharply. "Charlie, yes you do. We're only five minutes away."

'_He's right,'_ Charlie admonished himself. '_Don't be irrational, it's just a stupid one hour appointment.' _He was still lecturing himself as they pulled into the parking lot of the therapy center. The two story building loomed like a fortress in front of him, and his heart beat accelerated.

"Okay," he could hear his father saying. "I'm going to run these groceries home, and I'll be back to pick you up." Silence descended, and Charlie suddenly realized that his father was looking at him, waiting for him to get out of the car.

He opened the door with an unsteady hand. "Okay. See you later."

Alan watched him go, sick with concern. Charlie's thin shoulders were hunched; his gate slow and unsure. Alan had brought up the subject of psychiatric therapy yet again that morning, but Charlie had responded by merely shaking his head impatiently, and had gone on writing on his boards. Alan was looking forward to Don's visit that evening for more than one reason; he hoped fervently that his older son could succeed in convincing Charlie that he needed help. After the past few days, Alan knew unequivocally that his younger son needed to do something; he was ready to crack. Something was going to have to give. He watched Charlie enter the building, sighed, and put the car in reverse.

Charlie paused in the doorway of the building, not quite sure how he got there. He was trying so hard to fight down the rising fear that he couldn't even remember the trip up the sidewalk. He could feel a panic attack hovering in the back of his consciousness and he tried to force it down, signing in at the reception area with a shaky hand. He vaguely heard a female voice saying, "Okay Dr. Eppes, just have a seat, I'll get Sam."

He made his way over to a group of chairs, avoiding the eyes of the young man sitting there. His breathing was starting to accelerate, along with his heartbeat, and he could feel his knees trembling. He shrank into a chair, trying to be inconspicuous, but anyone watching had to notice, he thought. He was shaking like a leaf, and as Sam, his therapist walked in the room, a flood of terror rose in him, grasping at his chest.

"Hi Dr. Eppes," Sam began, and then looked at him with concern. "Are you okay?"

Charlie looked at him for a moment, chest heaving, unable to respond, and then shook his head. His vision was dimming at the edges; a wave of fierce unreasonable terror broke over him and he bent over his knees, his body trembling.

Sam had knelt next to him, looking at him in concern. "Do you want us to call someone?"

Charlie nodded, gasping. "My dad. Home phone." He wrapped his trembling hands around his knees, trying not to hyperventilate.

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Alan guided his shaking son into the passenger seat of the car, and hurried around to the driver's seat. He had walked into the house to the sound of the ringing phone, and had immediately headed back to the therapy center, to find Charlie in the middle of a full-fledged, debilitating panic attack. Inside the car, he looked with concern at his son. Charlie was white as a sheet, still shaking, his breath ragged. Alan could feel panic of his own rising; he felt helpless, unable to stop what was happening. He saw Charlie's head come up, and his son turned tortured frightened eyes on him.

"I think I need to talk to someone," he whispered.

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At home, Alan situated Charlie on the sofa, got him some water, and immediately picked up the phone. Charlie seemed to be regaining control; he was still trembling and pale, but his breathing was nearly back to normal. Alan wasn't wasting any time, however; and he wasn't giving Charlie an opportunity to change his mind.

Charlie looked at him, the residue of fear still in his eyes. "Who are you calling?"

"Donnie. I'm going to get Megan's number-,"

Alarm flashed in Charlie's face, followed by stubbornness. "Don't tell him!"

"What?" Alan could hear the phone ringing on the other end.

"Don't tell Don."

Alan frowned, but he didn't have a chance to reply; his older son's voice came from the other end. "Hey, Donnie," he said trying to make his tone casual. "I was wondering if I could get Megan's phone number. Charlie wanted to get those references from her." Pause. "Yeah, really. No, he's okay, he's sitting right here." Alan looked at Charlie meaningfully, and Charlie sank back into the sofa cushions with relief. "Okay, good, yes, put her on." He handed the phone to Charlie, who looked at it with trepidation, and then raised it slowly to his ear.

"Megan?" he asked, trying to keep his voice steady.

"_Yeah Charlie," _came her cheerful voice_. "I've got three names here. There's Dr. Susan Ward, Dr. Patesh Suri, and Dr. William Bradford. I think it's really good you decided to do this."_

"Yeah." Charlie wasn't so sure, but the fear of what was happening to him was overwhelming his reluctance. He swallowed. "Is there one of them that you would recommend?"

"_Personally, I would recommend Dr. Bradford. That's who your brother sees."_

Charlie shifted uneasily on the sofa cushion. "I don't know, going to the same doctor; that just seems kind of – weird."

"_Well, think about it, Charlie. He already read the case files; Don's been to him since he came back from Los Padres. Bradford is familiar with what happened – you wouldn't have to rehash all of it for him. It would be a lot easier on you. You know the sessions are confidential."_

Charlie could feel anxiety rising in his chest again. Now that he had made the decision to talk to someone, he was overwhelmed with urgency. He couldn't take much more of this. "Okay. What's his number?" He listened for a moment, and then said shakily, "Okay, thanks."

He hung up and looked at the phone, and then dialed with trembling hands, consumed with sudden impatience, sudden need. He was dimly aware of his father retreating to the kitchen doorway as the phone began to ring on the other end.

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William Bradford rubbed his forehead and looked at the clock. Friday afternoon, thank God. One more session and he could call it a week. The phone rang, and he picked it up with an expression of annoyance. "Bradford."

"_Dr. William Bradford?"_

Yes," he said a little impatiently, "this is him speaking."

"_I – uh- I was referred to you. I was wondering if you had an opening."_

"When?" Bradford's forehead wrinkled in concentration. The voice on the other end sounded vaguely familiar. He pulled up his calendar on the computer behind his desk.

"_As soon as possible?"_

Bradford eyes flickered over the screen. "Ordinarily it would be a couple of weeks, but I did just have a session end. There's an opening Monday afternoon."

"_Monday."_

The word came back so low, it was almost a whisper, and the disappointment in it was apparent. Bradford frowned. "To whom am I speaking?"

"_Charles Eppe_s."

Bradford raised his eyebrows. Don Eppes' little brother. Well, well. Before he could speak, the voice continued, sounding strained.

"_I guess I forgot today was Friday. Monday is good."_

Bradford paused for a moment, frowning. He had attended the Edgerton hearing on Tuesday, and had watched with interest as Charles Eppes had testified. This person did not sound at all like the confident young man on the stand. Something was wrong. "Wait a minute," he said. He laid the receiver down, rubbed his face and sighed. '_Shit," _he thought. "_Here goes my Saturday." _

He picked up the phone again. "Dr. Eppes? I have some time tomorrow afternoon. One thirty. Can you come in then?"

"_I – yes – I uh – thank you."_

The voice on the other end sounded relieved and pitifully grateful. Bradford shook his head silently. "Don't mention it." He hung up the phone, and looked at the clock. He had a half hour before his last appointment. Time for a little research. He had the background files on both of the Eppes brothers from the Bureau, but he could always use a little more information. Undoubtedly Dr. Eppes would be an interesting case. He tapped at the keyboard, and began a search on 'Charles Eppes.'

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"Hey, Dad." Don stepped through the kitchen door with a weary apologetic smile, and gave his father a brief, uncharacteristic hug, which Alan accepted gratefully. Don stepped sideways and opened the refrigerator door, depositing beer, and held up a bottle of Cabernet. "I even brought wine."

Alan smiled through his fatigue. "What's the occasion? Don't tell me you're celebrating because you're leaving."

Don snorted softly. "Hardly. I just thought, with all the crap we've been through lately, now that's its over, we ought to celebrate a little." He grinned. "Don't get too excited. You know how educated I am when it comes to wine. I hope it's okay." He set the wine next to the beer.

Alan frowned at the package of steaks. "I still don't understand what you're going to be doing down there. If you have to sit in an office you might as well do it here."

"Dad, you know I can't tell you. Anyway, I only have partial duty clearance on this assignment. By the way, check it out." He grinned.

"Check what out?"

"Two shoes."

Alan looked down. "What happened to your cast?"

Don lifted his pant leg, revealing a brace. "Air cast. At least I can put shoes on now. Got it on yesterday. I have to wear it for two weeks; then I'm done. I can go back to full duty then."

"How convenient," muttered Alan.

Don scowled. "What's that supposed to mean?"

"It means that it's funny that they need agents for an assignment, and you're miraculously released with a leg that's still hurt. What are you, a piece of meat?" He stabbed viciously at a steak.

Don looked at him in exasperation. "I told you, I only got a partial release."

"Which is what?" snapped Alan.

Don glared, and tried to keep his voice patient. "I go to orientation next week and sit on my butt for two days, and then they put me an assignment as a dock supervisor, which means I walk around and check off boxes twice a day, then sit on my ass for the rest of it. Nothing else. No action, no raids, no nothing. Now, I just told you way more than I was supposed to. Can we not argue about this tonight?"

Alan sighed. "Sorry. I'm a little out of sorts, I guess."

'_A little!' _thought Don. '_What a grump.' _"Where's Charlie?"

Alan's sobered and turned back to the steaks, coating them in marinade. "Garage."

Don's face softened. "I think it's great that he decided to talk to someone." He rubbed the back of his head. "To tell you the truth, I was feeling a little guilty about leaving so soon, you know…," He trailed off, his eyes on his father's back; then continued. "The fact that he's going to talk to someone, that's good."

"You should tell him that," said Alan. "It will probably make him feel better, to know that you won't be worrying as much about it. I think that's bothering him." '_Along with a lot of other things,' he_ thought.

"Yeah, okay. So he's doing better?"

Alan just looked at him, and silence stretched. "You should probably see for yourself," he said finally.

Don frowned, but headed for the kitchen door with a shrug. "Okay."

He made his way to the garage, pushing open the door, to find his brother standing in front of a blackboard. Don's eyes narrowed. Was it just him, or did Charlie look like he had lost weight again? His brother was working feverishly on something, utterly engrossed, and Don sauntered up to him. "Hey Chuck," he said softly. Charlie held up his free hand, his other making staccato clicks on the board with the chalk.

Don frowned, unease starting in the pit of his stomach. He had a sudden unwelcome flashback of Charlie when their mother was dying. He studied his brother. He had the same frenetic energy, the same driven intensity in his eyes. Charlie muttered something to himself, and charged over to another board. Don tried again. "Charlie."

Charlie stiffened; a gesture of impatience. "I'm almost done here." He stood for a moment, as if thinking; and Don saw his shoulders sag. "I'm sorry," Charlie said softly.

He turned, and Don's heart contracted, painfully. The change in his brother since Tuesday was unnerving. He had lost weight again, Don realized, but it was his eyes that were the most disturbing. They were haunted, frightened, disconnected, as if his brother was seeing something that others couldn't.

Charlie put a shaking hand to the back of his neck, and looked away, misery in his face. "You have to promise me," he said to the rafters.

Don frowned, confused at the sudden change in Charlie's demeanor. "Promise you what, Buddy?" he said gently.

Charlie swung his gaze on him, and it was so fierce, so intense, that it almost backed Don up a step. "Promise me, if you know someone is making a bad decision, that you call them on it. Promise me that if you see something that's not right, you'll get out."

Don stared, disconcerted; then nodded slowly. "I promise."

"Good." Charlie straightened, and laid down his chalk with a shaking hand. When he looked back, he had a smile pasted on his face. Taken together with the expression in his eyes; it was one of the most unnerving sights that Don had ever seen.

"One more promise," said Charlie, with eerie matter-of-factness. "While you're down there, you need to keep your mind on your work. Don't worry about me." The smile broadened, and had the effect of raising the hair on the back of Don's neck. "I'm fine. Let's go eat dinner."

Charlie stepped past him, stiffly, the brittle smile still grimly planted. Don stared after his retreating back, and felt cold fear creep into his heart.

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End Chapter 3


	4. Chapter 4

**Chapter 4**

Alan sat in Dr. Bradford's waiting room, with his hand on Charlie's back. His son was in the middle of another panic attack, which had started as soon as they entered the building. Charlie was bent over, shaking, struggling to control his breathing, when the door to Bradford's office opened. The man who walked out was not what Alan had expected. Big, brusque, and businesslike, his eyes were at half mast, his eyebrows raised in a slightly sardonic expression, which gave Alan the impression that the man had just a bit of an attitude. Definitely not the touchy-feely type. Alan swallowed; suddenly unsure that Charlie had picked the right doctor.

Bradford seemed completely unperturbed by Charlie's condition, and he stopped in front them. "Dr. Eppes."

Charlie looked up, breathing heavily, his face pale, and nodded.

Bradford turned to Alan. "Mr. Eppes, I presume?" At Alan's murmured response, he continued. "I'm going to ask Dr. Eppes to come with me. I don't expect this first session to take very long. You're welcome to wait."

'_Not take very long?' _thought Alan, slightly irritated. '_He hasn't even talked to him yet – how does he know?"_ "Thank you, I'll wait," he said stiffly.

"Very good, Dr. Eppes, please follow me." Bradford turned and headed for the office, without a backward glance. Charlie rose to his feet with an effort, and followed him on unsteady legs.

Bradford was holding the office door, and shut it behind Charlie. He indicated a deep soft-looking armchair. "Sit there." Bradford sat down across from him and regarded him levelly. "You okay?"

Charlie swallowed. "Yeah," came the shaky response.

"You don't look okay. Take a minute. Lean back in the chair, close your eyes, take a deep breath or two." Charlie complied, and Bradford regarded him. Quite a contrast to his brother, he thought. They both had dark hair and eyes, but the physical resemblance ended there. The younger Eppes was much smaller, much slighter. Don exuded strength and confidence; Charlie intelligence, sensitivity. His face was an open book; Bradford had noticed that even at the hearing; Dr. Eppes' eyes were much more expressive, more revealing than his brother's.

Don Eppes held his emotions much closer to the vest. Bradford had only seen two brief moments that revealed that the man even had emotions. One was a breakthrough therapy session, during which Don was discussing his team, and had come to some key realizations about himself. At that session, Bradford had actually seen the man's eyes mist up slightly. The other was after the hearing; when he saw Don look at his brother, and had allowed himself a rare smile. Other than that, Don Eppes generally wore two expressions, carefully neutral, or a scowl. Both of them, either of them, served to hide what he was really feeling.

Charles Eppes on the other hand, couldn't hide an emotion if he tried. Even when he was relatively composed, at the hearing, Bradford had read his expressions easily. Nervousness, thoughtfulness, earnestness; the look that he gave his brother when he entered the room – a mixed look of apology and an appeal for approval. And now, anxiety, fear, misery. The young man's breathing was slowing, and Bradford spoke. "Why don't you tell me why you asked for an appointment?"

Charlie's eyes flew open in surprise. Was the man kidding? He straightened in his chair, a little disconcerted by Bradford's cool gaze. "I've, uh, been having some problems with anxiety, and uh, panic attacks."

"And when did this start?"

Charlie stared at him. Bradford had read the case files, hadn't he? "I guess – the anxiety started after Los Padres. I felt like I was getting better last weekend, but it came back." He swallowed and put a shaky hand on the back of his neck, and looked at the window. "It seems like it's getting worse. The panic attacks started yesterday."

"Have you ever had severe anxiety or panic attacks before?"

"Yes," said Charlie slowly. "When I was at Princeton. When my mom died. When Don got shot."

"So you would say you have a history of this behavior, when presented with a trigger."

'_What is he insinuating?' _wondered Charlie. He looked back at Bradford. _' He thinks I'm a nutcase.' "_Yes," he said in a low voice.

Bradford seemed to read his mind. "It's important to understand that your reaction is perfectly normal, especially considering your history. You are exhibiting classic signs of post traumatic stress disorder, PTSD. It has manifested itself in the panic attacks, and in GAD, or generalized anxiety disorder." He turned to his desk and picked up a pad and pen. "I'm going to prescribe a couple of medications for you – lorazepam for the anxiety symptoms, and a serotonin re-uptake inhibitor."

Charlie scowled. "I don't need an SSRI."

Bradford's eyebrows lifted. "I would think that you of all people, with your Cognitive Emergence work, would understand the benefits of an SSRI. Your brain chemicals are out of whack from the severe stress. The SSRI will bring them back into line. It takes a couple of weeks to start working. The lorazepam will help in the meanwhile. I want you to start these medications and come back in a week."

Charlie stared at him. '_That's it? Throw some medication at the problem, maybe it will go away." _

Bradford picked up on his expression. "You really are in no condition to talk just yet. Give the medicine a chance to start working, and we'll talk next week." He stood and handed Charlie the prescription. "This is going to take more than one session, and some homework on your part, which this week includes taking your medications and going out for some daily exercise – two miles, walking or jogging, whatever you can handle, every day. Don't expect a quick fix. In fact, it could very well get worse before it gets better. If you have any problems during the week, call me."

'_Worse?' _thought Charlie with despair. '_How could it possibly get any worse?' _He took the prescription with a shaking hand, and stood. He shouldn't be ungrateful; the man had obviously made time for him on a day off. At the door, he turned. "Thank you," he said quietly, "for seeing me."

Bradford regarded the dark pain-filled eyes, and nodded, his own expression softening. "Don't mention it."

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Megan glanced furtively for the fifth time at her boss. Don was in the airplane seat next to her, staring out the window, obviously preoccupied. Something was definitely on his mind. She had kept silent up until that point, figuring he would talk if he wanted to; but curiosity was getting the better of her.

Don stared at the folds of mountains, spread out like a topographical map, 30,000 feet below; his stomach tight with anxiety, thinking back to the evening before. His brother had made it through dinner, and even managed to get a little of it down, but it was an effort, Don could tell. Charlie had seemed to be just barely coping – like a taut wire ready to break. He was there in front of them physically, but his head was still out in the garage. It was eerily reminiscent of how he had behaved when their mother died, but with an added helping of tension, if such a thing were possible. Don sighed. It was scaring the hell out of him.

And here he was on a plane. He should be home, helping them. Damn this assignment. Damn the gangs and drug dealers that made it necessary. He rubbed his face and sighed again.

Megan picked up on the second sigh in as many minutes. She could stand it no longer. "You okay?"

Don pulled himself out of his thoughts and looked at her as if he was surprised to see her there. "Yeah." He looked out of the window again. "Just thinking about Charlie."

Megan's eyes narrowed. "Yeah? How's he doing?"

He rubbed his face again. "I don't know, Megan. Not good."

She frowned. "I thought he was doing better. He seemed okay on the phone yesterday."

"He's wound tight. Dad told me he had a major panic attack at his physical therapy session yesterday. Apparently it scared him enough to ask for the therapists' names."

"Do you know if he called?"

"Yeah, Dad said he got an appointment for today."

"Bradford has Saturday hours?"

Don looked at her, startled. "Bradford! That's who you gave him?"

"I gave him three names. When he asked for a recommendation, I told him Bradford, and he took his phone number." She looked at him uncertainly. "Are you okay with that?"

Don had been staring at the seat back in front of him, trying to fight down the odd feeling in his gut, and he yanked his gaze back. "No, yeah, it's fine. That's good." He stared out of the window again. "That's good," he repeated softly, as if trying to convince himself.

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That evening, Charlie sat, hunched miserably on the sofa. He had had high hopes that the lorazepam would help, but the effects seemed marginal. He had tried to get out for a walk that afternoon, but was consumed by a panic attack halfway down the block. Back home, he had taken another pill, even though it wasn't time, desperate to calm the anxiety. He had taken another after dinner; that dose finally seemed to take the edge off a little, but he was still far from relaxed.

He looked at the clock. Almost bedtime. Almost time for sleeping pills and oblivion. He turned his gaze on his father, who was sitting in the armchair, reading the newspaper. "Dad, I'm going to bed. Where'd you put the sleeping pills?"

Alan peered at him over his reading glasses. "Are you allowed to take those with your other medication?"

Charlie's stomach clenched at the thought. He would never make it through the night without them, he thought. "Dr. Bradford didn't say I couldn't."

"Did you tell him you were taking sleeping pills?"

"No."

"Charlie, I don't know if you should. You need to ask him first."

Charlie ran a hand over his face impatiently, but conceded. "All right," he said grumpily. "I'm going up." He slouched toward the stairs. "Good night."

He passed his father's room, glancing in casually, and stopped dead in the hallway. He could see the pill bottle on his father's nightstand, and he headed toward it, his jaw set stubbornly. '_I can't believe that a couple of sleeping pills would be an issue,'_ he thought defiantly. He shook two out into his hand, and then, remembering how out groggy he had been in the morning, put one back. '_One, anyway_. _One can't hurt.'_

Three hours later he was up. The house was quiet and dark. He had to do something, but he couldn't remember what it was. He sat for a moment, then slipped on his sweatpants and his tennis shoes, and crept silently out of his room, down the stairs, letting himself softly outside, leaving the door ajar. He headed down the walk, rambling; his eyes vacant. He was still asleep.

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Alan headed downstairs early. It was Sunday, but he couldn't sleep any longer; stress over Charlie was taking its toll. He was mightily relieved, however, that Charlie had started to see someone; Alan had been second-guessing himself, and it was nice to have someone; especially a professional, overseeing things. He felt as though a burden had been lightened – not lifted – but lightened, and he felt the beginnings of hope stirring. His rising spirits went into a spiraling freefall as he caught sight of the open door.

"What in the heck?" he muttered. Charlie must have come downstairs already, he thought, but why would he have opened the door? He flew through the kitchen to check the garage, tension mounting in his chest when he saw no sign of his son. He charged back up the stairs, and checked his son's room. No Charlie. He felt full-fledged panic start to erupt. "Stop," he told himself, as he gasped for air. "He must have gone out for his walk."

It made perfect sense, he told himself. Charlie had probably woken up early because he hadn't taken a sleeping pill. Going out for a walk early would mean less people, less traffic, probably a more comfortable situation for him, given his panic attacks. Actually, Alan reasoned, his breathing starting to calm, the fact that he wasn't here was a good thing – it meant he actually made it out without a panic attack. Suddenly feeling much better, he went downstairs, closed the door, and went to make coffee.

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A horn blared, and Charlie started, looking around groggily. He was standing on the curb in the early morning light, about to cross an unfamiliar street. He stood, taking in the shabby businesses, the littered street, confused, a feeling of tension rising. He was dreaming. He had to be dreaming. Two skinny African-American kids loped by, IPODs blaring so loudly that he could hear the music through their earplugs.

Charlie felt his breathing ratchet up, and he pinched his arm hard, wincing at the pain. Not dreaming. How could that be? How did he get here? Booming bass from a car stereo thumped, getting louder as a car approached, then receded. More people were appearing on the sidewalks, bustling, shuffling to their destinations, giving him the brief suspicious glances that respectable people reserved for derelicts. '_Oh, God,' _thought Charlie, as he trembled with the familiar onset of a panic attack. _'I must be losing it. How could I get here without remembering it?'_

He had to get out of here. Had to get back home. Which way was home? He whirled, looking around him, and staggered away from the curb, backing toward the nearest building. A couple of young men wearing gang insignia had been watching him with interest, and sidled up next to him, one on either side. "You crashin' man?" said one of them, with a knowing smile. "Need some stuff?"

Charlie looked at them wildly, chest heaving. "N-no." He looked desperately for a street sign. "What street is this?"

"We got good shit, man," murmured the second one. "It take it all away. You feel _good_."

Charlie looked at them in horror, and backed away, shaking, stumbling backwards down the sidewalk, then turned and fled. They watched him go. "He be messed up," observed the first one.

Charlie ducked into a doorway, his legs trembling, and bent over, his hands on his knees. Phone. He needed to find a phone, call his dad. He peered out of the doorway, looking up and down the street. Many of the business had metal curtains pulled over their storefronts, not open for business on Sunday. He finally spotted a seedy looking grocery store with its door open in the next block across the street, and looking cautiously around him, headed towards it on shaky legs.

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Alan paced; the phone to his ear. He had been up for an hour and a half, and there was still no Charlie. He knew instinctively something was not right – even with his recently healed leg, it wouldn't take Charlie any longer than forty minutes to go two miles. The thought then occurred to him that he had no idea when his son had actually left, and that was when real panic set in. He was now on hold with LAPD, waiting with barely contained fear.

"Yes," he said finally, frustration and fear making him talk a little too loudly. "My son is missing. At least an hour and a half. No, I know that's not very long, but he shouldn't be gone that long. He's been having some problems – no ma'am, he's an adult. He's on medication, maybe he had a reaction – please, I know, but -,"

He broke off, staring at the phone helplessly, the recipient of a curt refusal and an abrupt good bye. Charlie hadn't been gone long enough to qualify for a search. Alan's stomach clenched. If Don was here, he would do something, pull some strings; send out his own people if he had to. But Don wasn't here. Alan moaned softly, and slumped against the wall, his face in his hand.

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The store owner, a balding stocky man of Middle Eastern descent, eyed Charlie suspiciously from behind the counter. "No phone here," he snapped in accented English.

"Please," begged Charlie, shaking, his face agonized. "I just need someone to pick me up – just a quick call." A sharp pang of terror stabbed at his chest, stealing his breath, and he staggered, his vision dimming.

The merchant looked at him dourly, and then behind him at the patrons in the store, who were eyeing the young man curiously. '_Drug users,'_ he spat to himself. He reluctantly pulled a phone onto the counter. If a phone call got the junkie out of his store, it would be worth it. "Make it quick. Tell them hurry, or I call the police."

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Alan stood, phone to his ear, and regarded his miserable son, who was sitting on the sofa, his knees drawn up to his chest. At Charlie's phone call, he had flown downtown, to a marginal neighborhood nearly ten miles away, and found his son sitting, huddled shaking outside a small dirty-looking grocery store, his eyes huge with fear. Upon getting home he had immediately called Dr. Bradford's answering service. Dr. Bradford had called back within twenty minutes, and Alan told him about Charlie's nighttime flight.

Alan frowned, listening. "Other medications? I don't know, let me ask him," he said into the phone, looking at his son suspiciously. "Charlie, did you take any sleeping pills last night?"

Charlie looked up, defensively. "Just one."

Alan rubbed his face and sighed. "Yes, Dr. Bradford, a sleeping pill." He turned away into the kitchen, talking, and then hung up the phone and approached his son. He had a good mind to scold him, but the big dark eyes were so full of misery he didn't have the heart.

"Charlie, you can't take the sleeping pills anymore. Apparently there has been a problem with them; there have been incidents of people sleep-walking, even driving while asleep. It's been in the news. Dr. Bradford said the lorazepam could magnify the effect." He shook his head. After what his son had put him through, he couldn't resist a lecture. "Didn't I tell you not to take them last night?"

"Yes," said Charlie. "I didn't think one would hurt."

He looked so defeated that Alan relented and softened his words, trying for a smile. "Well, look on the bright side. You got your walk in for today." Charlie put his head down on his knees. So much for a smile.

The phone rang, and Alan picked it up. "Donnie!" he exclaimed. Charlie's head shot up; he shook his head vehemently and mouthed the word "_No_," and Alan rolled his eyes. "No, everything's fine here, just fine."

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End Chapter 4


	5. Chapter 5

**Chapter 5 **

Don and Megan waited in the car on Thursday morning, stuck in the line attempting to cross the border. Colby and David were in separate vehicles behind them. After orientation in Houston they had been deployed to Laredo, a dusty little town on the U.S. - Mexican border. The town that mirrored it on the Mexican side, Nuevo Laredo, had exploded with the move of American businesses over the border. Factories had sprung up, and with them, miles worth of shanty towns, crammed with pathetic hovels that could hardly be called houses, slapped together from cardboard, tin, and whatever else the occupants could scavenge.

With the explosion came also nicer houses, and with them money. The money in turn brought drugs. Nuevo Laredo was a cesspool of murder, kidnapping and gang activity. It was the gang activity and the associated drug smuggling that had gotten the attention of the DEA. The border between Laredo and Nuevo Laredo was a major smuggling corridor, facilitated by corruption on both sides, and DEA agents had discovered that some of the factories on the Mexican side had picked up drug smuggling as a side occupation, hiding loads of drugs in their shipments.

After some preliminary investigation, the DEA had determined that the companies who owned the factories were not aware of the illegal activity – that gangs had infiltrated the businesses and were arranging the shipments on the side. Sorely undermanned, the DEA had requested resources from other areas, including the FBI. In a coordinated effort with Mexico, agents were to be posing as new hires for the businesses, taking jobs as supervisors, factory workers, and clerical staff in the factories, in an attempt to sniff out which ones were shipping the drugs.

Megan and Don were posing as a married couple from Indiana, with jobs in separate factories, Megan as an inspector, Don as a dock supervisor. Colby was a dock handler, David an inventory specialist. Along with several other agents, they crossed the border each day, ostensibly to work, each in different factories. At night, each reported any findings to Don, who passed on all of the reports for his group to the DEA official in charge, Mick Dugan. This part of the assignment was strictly surveillance; all agents were under orders simply to report and not act.

The intent was to uncover as many of the smuggling sites as they could, and to go in after them with the Mexican government in one big raid, taking down all of them at once, to avoid tipping off the gangs that were running them. It was an ambitious project, especially considering the rampant corruption in the Mexican police force. Because of that, only very high levels in the Mexican government were currently informed; word of the project would not get down to the lower levels until the raid occurred.

The traffic inched forward across the border, and Don sighed. They had only been there two days, and he was already tired of the infamous border lines. People did this every day for a living, he marveled. An hour and a half to go just a few miles. But then again, the L.A. freeways weren't much better. His mind wandered homeward. He had gotten to the point where he could tell if Charlie was in the room when he talked to his father; Alan tended to be stingy with details, to gloss over the real situation. Charlie apparently was petrified that Don would worry, and that worry would distract him.

When Alan got a chance to speak privately, however, he filled Don in on what was really happening. When Don heard about the sleep-walking episode, he was ready to declare a family emergency, and catch the first plane home. Alan assured him that things were settling down, and that Charlie was actually making progress, and Don reluctantly decided to stay. He was heartsick over what his brother was going through, however, and every time he thought of it, he felt a slow burn in his gut. Edgerton had caused all of it, and he had gotten off with a slap on the hand. Don would never forgive him for that. Never.

They finally made it through the border crossing, and Don tooled his SUV through the streets. The sun was up, and heat was rising; outside the vehicle the air was already oppressive. It would be another hot day on the loading docks. He dropped Megan off, and a short while later pulled into his factory lot.

The business machined and assembled brake parts; brake shoes and drums for commercial vehicles. The shipping containers were heavy, plastic partitioned tub-like crates. This particular factory had been targeted by the DEA for some time; they had a tip that it was one of the smuggling sites. The DEA already had one of their own men working here – Paul Biggs – but he had so far been unsuccessful at collecting any usable intelligence. They had assigned Don to the plant as another set of eyes.

Don swiped his company badge through the turnstile, and headed through the factory, glancing at his watch. He had made good time today, he realized, he was almost a half hour early. As he reached the dock, he looked casually around for Biggs. The man was usually here early, claiming that early risers beat the morning traffic. Don looked out through the loading entrance, silhouetted in the bright sunlight. He could see a pair of feet facing each other under the wheels of a semi that was pulled into the dock, standing just outside of it, khakis and loafers on one, baggy jeans and tennis shoes on the other.

Don drifted around the edge of the semi, behind some crates, and stole a glance. Biggs was there, along with a Mexican youth, a sharp-eyed young man with an attitude, a lazy confidence, and lots of jewelry. They finished talking and parted, and the furtive glances they sent around them as they walked away generated a flutter of suspicion in Don's gut. He faded back into the crates and headed for the other side of the dock, frowning.

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Charlie sat in the overstuffed armchair, waiting anxiously. Dr. Bradford had done some juggling in his schedule and had come up with Friday afternoon as a regular appointment time. He had ushered Charlie in, and had suggested to Alan that he leave for a while; as this appointment would be longer. Bradford now sat impassively looking at documents on his desk, and Charlie fidgeted in his chair, thinking back over the week.

He was still feeling anxious, and was prone to panic attacks every time he went out in public, but he had actually managed to make it in to this appointment without having one. It was close; he had to fight it down, but he managed, and had gotten to the waiting room, his heart thrumming, but still in control. He hated the medicine, it kept him from taking his sleeping pills, and as a result the nightmares had returned, but he had taken it faithfully, and he had to admit, he was doing a little better.

Bradford eyed his patient surreptitiously, flicking quick glances at him as he leafed through his reports. Dr. Eppes still appeared tense, but the odd disconnected look in his eyes from the week before was much diminished. "So," said Bradford suddenly, leaning back in his chair. "How are you feeling?"

Charlie shrugged and looked sideways. He was sitting tensely in the chair, his elbows propped on the high arms, his hands laced together in front of his chest, and he twisted them slightly. "Better, I think. I actually made it in here without a panic attack."

"And what do you think triggered those attacks?"

Charlie stared at him. What had happened in Los Padres was the obvious answer – too obvious – Bradford must be looking for something else. "Well, they only happen when I go out in public."

"I didn't ask you when they happened; I asked you what triggered them."

Charlie frowned. "Well, Los Padres, of course."

Bradford nodded. "Okay, I can buy that. That's at least part of the cause. Why do you think they started when they did? Why not right afterward?"

Charlie looked at his hands, not seeing them, and then back up. "I don't know."

"Okay. We'll come back to that. So the panic attacks are a little better. What else?"

"I feel anxious – it's always there – I keep feeling like something terrible is going to happen."

Bradford nodded. "That's classic General Anxiety Disorder, and a common symptom of PTSD. On a scale of 1 to 10, how severe would you rank the feelings? Think of 1 as no anxiety, and 10 as a panic attack."

Charlie closed his eyes, thinking, his brow furrowed.

'_He looks exhausted,'_ thought Bradford. '_Lack of sleep is not helping this situation at all.'_

"I would say anywhere from a six to an eight."

'_Pretty high,'_ thought Bradford, _'especially considering the fact that his panic attacks are as severe as they are.' _"What else?"

Charlie sighed. "I guess the worst of it are the nightmares."

"Tell me about them."

Charlie drew in a breath, his hands unconsciously clenched in front of him. "I'm in the woods – it's always dark – and I can feel him there. I start to run, but he gains on me. He tackles me, we fall, and he starts to hit." He paused and closed his eyes. He was starting to shake from the mere memory of it, and he fought for control. Bradford waited patiently.

After a long minute, Charlie continued. "He drags me through the forest until we get to the canyon – and then it starts." The last phrase was delivered with an effort, in almost a whisper.

"What starts?" asked Bradford quietly.

"The cutting." Charlie's face was drawn, and he stared at the floor. "He cuts me into pieces, starting with my feet."

A long pause ensued, while Bradford tried to compose himself. He had seen and heard a lot over his career, but Mansour's crimes were without a doubt the most horrific.

Charlie waited, hoping, praying, that this part of the session was over. Bradford, however had other ideas, and he began to question Charlie at length about the dreams. His questions were gentle, and he waited for Charlie to recover when he needed to, but it was still excruciating and exhausting.

Twenty minutes later, Bradford had decided that Charlie had reached his limit on the topic, and he decided to change the subject. He leaned back in his chair, tenting his fingers, and stared over the top of them. "You know, I'm curious. After all of that, why did you let Edgerton off the hook?"

Charlie shrugged and looked away. "I learned a few things after it happened."

"From who?"

"Edgerton. He stopped by the house one afternoon to apologize."

Bradford's eyes narrowed, and an internal alarm went off. Edgerton had been accused of coercing the young man when he was in the hospital. Was the purpose of his visit really to apologize, or to persuade? "Did he?"

"Apologize? Yes."

"Was that the only reason for his visit?"

Charlie looked at him, confused. "What do you mean?"

"Your testimony at the hearing – did Edgerton make you feel obligated in any way to testify the way you did?"

Understanding dawned on Charlie's face. "No. That was my decision. He did clarify a couple of things, but we never talked about testimony. He apologized and left."

"And did you accept the apology?"

Charlie looked away, his eyes dark. "I didn't say anything."

"But you forgive him."

"I didn't say that."

"Do you?"

Charlie looked down at the floor, pain in his face. "No," he whispered.

Bradford rubbed his forehead wearily. _'This is what you get for taking on a genius as a patient,'_ he thought. "So I'm back to my original question – why did you let him off the hook?"

Charlie rubbed the back of his neck nervously. "I figured the Bureau didn't want a stink made over this. If they had a chance to save face, and keep one of their top agents, they would jump at it – and they would owe me." He glanced sideways at Bradford, trying to gage his reaction.

"And what exactly were you hoping they would owe you?"

Charlie looked troubled. "Well, I know Don caught a little heat over the Crystal Hoyle thing. I thought if he ever got into a situation like that, where he had to make a decision that maybe someone didn't like, that I could, you know, call in a marker." He blinked nervously and looked down at his feet.

A look of surprise crossed Bradford's face. He wouldn't have pegged the professor for a political person. "Hmm, very altruistic of you – watching out for your big brother. What did he think of that?"

"He doesn't know that's why I did it."

Bradford eyed him speculatively. "Did it ever occur to you that it might piss him off - that he might want to fight his own battles, especially when it came to his own place of work?"

Charlie's head jerked up at this, and he stared back, wide-eyed, stricken. "No," he said faintly.

"Just a thought." Bradford watched with interest as the young man turned pale and looked at his feet, his breathing rate revving up again. "So, let's go back to the hospital. You'd been attacked twice by a maniac. The plan was for you to go home, and instead you went back out into the park with Edgerton. What was your rationale for that?"

"What?" Charlie looked up in confusion, his mind still on the previous question.

"Why did you go out with Edgerton?"

Charlie closed his eyes. "He told me that he had talked to Don; he insinuated that Don wanted me to go." He opened his eyes again and looked at the floor.

"And you skipped off with him, just like that."

Charlie winced. "I said no at first – but Edgerton made it sound like Don was counting on me, that he'd be disappointed." He looked sideways. "He had almost made it out of the room, when I stopped him."

Bradford shook his head, incredulously. "And you believed him – you really thought your brother would have asked you to do that."

Charlie looked away, silent, pain in his face. The hand went up behind the neck again, shaking.

Bradford regarded him for a moment, and the quiet settled like a thick blanket. He finally spoke. "What happened last Friday, before your first panic attack?"

Charlie's gaze flickered on him, then away. "Nothing. I woke up, ate breakfast; went out to the garage."

"What about on Thursday?"

Charlie shook his head. "Nothing. Took a sleeping pill, took a nap."

"Did you talk to your brother at all?"

"Dad did. He called Thursday night, to tell us -," Charlie broke off suddenly, revelation dawning in his face.

"To tell you what?"

"That he was going to Texas on assignment," Charlie spoke slowly, staring at the floor.

"And what was your reaction to that?"

Charlie raised his eyes, an odd expression on his face. "I lost my dinner."

Bradford raised his eyebrows. "Okay. Just a slight reaction. You do realize that this might have been a trigger for the panic attacks? Did you talk to your brother about it?"

Charlie rubbed his forehead. He had been so out of it, so consumed by anxiety, that he could scarcely remember the conversation. "Yeah, I uh, I think I lectured him, about not trusting anyone, and if he saw something that wasn't right to call them on it."

"You don't like him down there."

"No."

The word came out so low that Bradford could barely hear it. "You're worried that the same thing that happened to you is going to happen to him; that someone will screw up, and that will put him in danger."

Charlie could feel his heartbeat accelerating, painfully. "Yes," he said quietly.

Bradford regarded him for a moment. "Tell me something. Do you think your brother is a good judge of people?"

"Yes."

"And what about you? Are you a good judge of people – as good as your brother?"

Charlie snorted softly. "No. He's always been a lot better at that than I am. It's one of the reasons he's good at his job."

"So knowing that, do you really think he's going to let himself be put in a situation similar to yours?"

Charlie hung his head, color creeping into his cheeks. "No." '_He's not an idiot, like me.'_

Bradford frowned at Charlie's expression, but he continued. "So you really don't need to worry about him so much, do you?"

"No." Charlie kept his face lowered, but glanced up at him.

"Damn straight. He knows what he's doing." Bradford paused to let that sink in. "So let's recap. You went out with Edgerton because you wanted to impress your brother. You let Edgerton off the hook because you wanted to protect your brother. And you've been having panic attacks – partly from what happened in Los Padres, but partly because you're worried about your brother. I don't know about you, but I'm beginning to see a pattern here."

Charlie twisted his hands together and looked sideways.

Bradford stared at him a minute, speculating. He decided that his patient had endured enough for one session. "We'll talk about that some more next week."

Charlie looked up, and then rose uncertainly. He was being dismissed. "Okay. Thank you." He headed for the door.

Bradford's voice stopped him. "And stay away from those sleeping pills."

Charlie turned, startled at the brusque tone, and caught a hint of a smile. He reddened, his face sheepish, and for the first time in a week and a half, smiled himself.

-------------------------End Chapter 5-----------------------------------------------------------------------


	6. Chapter 6

**Chapter 6**

Tuesday afternoon, Don barely gave Megan time to get in the SUV and shut the door before he spoke. "I've figured it out."

She looked at him in surprise. "Figured what out?"

"How they're managing the shipments. I got to the plant today earlier than usual, and I caught Biggs talking to that Mexican again. They were standing talking by this semi that had just pulled in. It should have come in empty, but there were three containers stuck in the back of it." He cast a meaningful glance at her. "Guess what was in them?"

"Drugs," breathed Megan. "But what's this with Biggs? And how did you know they had drugs in them?"

Don smiled grimly. "When they were talking, Biggs pointed at the semi trailer. When Biggs left, I went around the semi to see if I could get a look at the Mexican, see if he was still out there. He wasn't, but when I looked in the trailer I saw containers, so I climbed in and checked them out. Biggs obviously knew they were there."

He glanced at her. "He's dirty, Megan. He's the one that always checks the trailers, directs the loading of the trucks. That's to make sure that no one else checks the trailers – so they don't realize the trucks are coming from the warehouse with containers already in them. It's a good plan; the customs agents aren't going to mess with a truck full of heavy bins to get to the ones in the back of the trailers."

Megan smiled in excitement, her eyes shining. "So the warehouse is the focal point. If we take that down, we shut down the whole operation, no matter which businesses they're using." She gave him a playful punch in the shoulder. "Damn, you're good."

"Yeah, we just have to locate the warehouse. I got the name of it from the shipping records; it's always shown as the previous destination. There'll be another one on the U.S. side too, receiving the shipments. I couldn't find a name for that one, but it shouldn't be hard to find it; we just need to have someone follow the trucks."

Megan sobered. "You're sure Biggs didn't see you?"

"No, he headed up to the front office for a meeting. I was supposed to be there too; I just came in late. He was sitting in the conference room when I got there – he couldn't have seen me. I need to talk to Dugan. He's going to have to look at whoever he has that is working a dock assignment. My bet is that anyone in that job in any of the plants is dirty."

Megan grinned. "Well, this ought to speed things up. We'll be going home early."

Don pulled the SUV into the line to cross the border, and sighed. "None too soon. If I have to cross this border too many more times, I'm gonna lose it." As soon as he said the words, an image flashed in his mind of Charlie's strange behavior the last night he was home, and he kicked himself mentally for even thinking it. '_Charlie isn't losing it_,' he thought, angry with himself. In fact, his father had told Don just this morning that Charlie was doing better. Not sleeping great yet, but the panic attacks were better._ 'Not that I've been any help,' _Don berated himself. He was suddenly filled with impatience, impatience with the customs line, impatience with being away from home. Yeah, he thought, going home would definitely come none too soon.

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The raids were set for Wednesday night. The team worked feverishly Tuesday evening, preparing. The warehouses had been identified, and it was decided that Mexican police and troops would take the location in Mexico, and the U.S. agents would take down the warehouse on the U.S. side. It was located just north of Laredo, on the outskirts of an industrial park just off the highway. Much to Don's chagrin, because of his leg, he wasn't cleared for the actual raid; he would be assigned to a command center in a nearby warehouse.

Dugan had accounted for any of his people working the docks, including Biggs. They were left out of the loop when it came to the plan; they could not be trusted. Local police were given their addresses, with instructions to arrest them as soon as the raid began.

A select few of them were chosen as leaks. Dugan would leak to them the plan for the raid, but tell them that it was set for Friday morning. The leak would be made one hour prior to the real thing on Thursday night. The idea behind it was to flush out as many of the players as possible; once the leak was made, the smugglers would descend on the warehouses, trying feverishly to remove the evidence. With any luck, they would all be there, including the gang leaders, when the raid actually occurred.

That afternoon, Biggs pulled into the parking lot of the apartment complex just behind Agents Eppes and Reeves. The complex was serving as housing for most of the agents involved; it was filled to capacity, and sported a no vacancy sign in the front.

Biggs sat for a moment in the air conditioning, loathe to step out into the heat. He saw Agent Granger approach, then Sinclair got out of his vehicle and the foursome clustered on the sidewalk. Biggs frowned slightly. According to their covers, they weren't really supposed to know each other; holding discussions in public was discouraged. His eyes narrowed suspiciously. The group broke up and headed inside. They seemed to be in a hurry.

Biggs stepped out of the vehicle frowning, and almost ran into Derk Wilson, a junior DEA agent, who was heading for his vehicle at a trot. "Hey man, you'd better hurry," breathed Derk, as he passed, oblivious to the fact that Biggs was out of the communications loop. Biggs hid his consternation with a nod. Something was going down. Something definitely was going down. He hurried inside, and got his service weapon, and headed back out to his SUV. He was sitting there waiting, when Eppes and his people headed back out to their vehicles. When they pulled out of the lot, he swung in behind them, leaving a car between.

A warehouse on the far end of the industrial park had emptied at 5:00, and the second shift had been cancelled. The agents congregated there at 7:00 sharp. As they arrived in the parking lot, they looked to the casual observer like the second shift coming to work. Inside, they would don flak jackets and weapons, go over plans, and wait for darkness.

Biggs followed along in the line of vehicles, and pulled into a spot on the edge of the parking lot. What was going on? Why hadn't he been included? They couldn't have made him. Suspicion and fear grew in his gut. If he'd been made, he had to get out. He needed to pull his assets and run. He wondered if the bank was still open, and pulled up the number on his cell phone.

"Yes, how late are you open today?" Pause. "And can you tell me the balance in my account?" He gave her his ID and account numbers, and waited for a reply, drumming his fingers nervously on the steering wheel.

'_I'm sorry sir, that account has been temporarily frozen. You'll have to speak to our account manager, and he's gone for the day. Can I help you with anything else?"_

"No," replied Biggs with a shaky voice. That was it. They knew. They had frozen his account. He hung up the phone and suddenly exploded, pounding the steering wheel with fury and despair. All of the work, all of the risk, all of the money he had saved, was for nothing. Gone. He had invested three years in this, and now was a penniless fugitive. He emitted a sound of rage through clenched teeth, and stared out the window at the agents unloading from their vehicles.

His eyes fell on Don Eppes and his team, and realization dawned in his eyes. Eppes. Eppes had done this – it had to be him. Fury rose in his chest. The son of a bitch had ruined him. He stared at him with baleful eyes, and scarcely realizing he was doing it, reached for the door handle.

They were going to take down the smuggling operations. Biggs didn't care about that any longer; he was ruined regardless. But by God, he would take that bastard Eppes with him. He tossed his cell phone onto the seat, and slipped out of the vehicle, head down; fingers itching to reach for the service weapon in his holster.

He fell in behind a couple of agents he didn't recognize, head down. If he didn't know them, they wouldn't recognize him. Keeping them in front of him, he slunk behind them into the warehouse, blending in with the groups of agents entering through the loading dock.

It was dim inside compared to the brightness in the parking lot. The overhead lighting lit the loading areas and aisles, but the large crates that were stored in huge metal racks in the storage areas blocked the light in the rest of the building. The corners were particularly dark, and Biggs slipped away into one of them, and then crept through the relatively dark racks, eyeing the agents gathering in the loading area through narrow gaps between the crates.

An agent wearing a DEA flak jacket spoke to the group, loudly and a bit arrogantly. "I am Agent Croyle. Mick Dugan is to my right; he is in charge of the operations as a whole. I am lead agent on this raid – I will be calling the shots tonight. Literally." He smirked, and Colby rolled his eyes at David. "Agent Eppes will run the command center inside this warehouse. He will help facilitate communications between the different teams."

"We will maintain communications through the headsets you have been issued. If you do not have them on, put them on now, along with your vests. Check your weapons, and report in with your groups to the table over there. We will give you your posts and assignments starting with Agent Mason and his group. The rest of you, pay attention; we'll call you with your assignments shortly."

Croyle turned away, and the agents went back to what they were doing, outfitting themselves, talking, milling around. Colby adjusted his earpiece and looked around, and spoke in a low voice to David. "Hey man, nature's calling. Do you see a bathroom anywhere?"

David glanced around and shrugged. "Your guess is as good as mine."

"All right. I'm gonna go look. Call me if they call us up." Colby headed off between the racks, headed for the side wall. He followed it around until he found the restroom. The light inside was bright, fluorescent, and when he came back out, he paused for a moment to allow his eyes to adjust to the dimness. The movement of something dark caught his eye, and he squinted. Someone was slinking through the racks.

Colby ducked instinctively and crept away from the wall, behind a container, and peered around it into the next aisle of crates. He could see a man crouched, a pistol in his hand, and his heart rate accelerated. Who in the hell was that? The face turned, the head in a listening position, and Colby's eyes narrowed. The man was tall, with a muscular build and sandy hair. It looked like Biggs, he thought. He hadn't had a lot of contact with the guy, but he was fairly certain it was him.

He looked around, and then crept back into the restroom. He needed a place where he could talk without being overheard. His headset was powered up, and he flipped it to talk. It should connect him with his team leader, which was Don.

Don winced as his headset blared suddenly in his ear, and fumbled for the volume. "Eppes," he said automatically.

'_Don, it's Colby.'_

Don grinned wryly. "Testing out your headset? It's not a toy, Granger."

'_I know, Don, look – there's a guy back here hiding in the racks. He's armed – I think it's Biggs. Don't look around – he's watching you guys.'_

Don's eyes narrowed and he turned his back to the racks, pretending to fiddle with his vest. "Where are you?"

'_Back by the restrooms. He's in the next aisle over, closer to you guys.'_

"Okay, hold tight for a minute and keep your eye on him. I'm going to talk to Dugan."

Don looked around for Megan and David. Megan was on the far side of the loading area but David was a few feet away. Don stepped over to him. "David, come with me. We're going over to talk to Dugan. Try to look casual." They sauntered slowly over to Dugan, who was deep in conversation with Croyle, but as they approached, Dugan took off suddenly for the other side of the warehouse. Croyle was still there; he would do, thought Don.

Don stepped up to him, and spoke quietly. "We have a problem. Try not to react, we're being watched. One of my guys just spotted Biggs in the racks. He's watching the group, and he's armed."

Alarm flickered in Croyle's eyes, but he maintained his composure. He slouched a little and smiled, trying to make the conversation appear casual. "I'm going to need you guys to check it out. Can you get back to where your man is? We need to take him out of the picture."

He looked at them with quiet intensity. "We need him alive. He's obviously been tipped off. We need to find out if any of the rest of them knows about the raids. Don't spook him; we don't want him to run."

Don nodded. "Colby's back by the restroom. David and I will go."

Croyle flipped on his headset. "I'm gonna pretend like I'm telling you where the restrooms are." He pointed to the wall behind the racks and Don turned to look.

"Okay," said Don. "I'll head back there. David; wait a minute, then follow me." He pasted a grin on his face, and then turned away from the group, heading for an opening in the racks. As he passed between them he blinked, attempting to adjust to the dimness. He kept his body language relaxed, trying to make it appear just a routine trip to the bathroom. Once there, he would reconnoiter with Colby, get a location on Biggs, and direct David.

The hair rose on the back of his neck as he passed between the racks of crates. Was Biggs watching him? Without warning, Charlie's words suddenly came back to him, '_Promise me that if you see something that's not right, you'll get out.'_ He pushed the thought away, impatiently. It's not a good situation, but we've got a handle on this, he thought to himself. He fought the urge to glance around him as he reached the back wall and turned toward the restrooms.

Croyle watched Eppes disappear into the racks, then saw David follow. A thought occurred to him and he grimaced. "_Shit, Eppes is not cleared for this.'_ He fingered his headset and then thought better of it. If he pulled Eppes out now it might tip off Biggs. Eppes looked pretty mobile, and he knew what he was doing. He would just let it be.

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Biggs craned his neck, trying to see through the narrow slits between the containers. He saw Eppes and one of his men talking to Dugan and Croyle. Croyle was another person he hated. Arrogant, self-righteous bastard. Maybe he would take him out too. He saw Croyle motion toward the restroom, and Eppes turn and head toward the side wall. Perfect. He would wait until Eppes came out, and take care of him. Then on his way out of the warehouse, in the confusion, he would try for a shot at Croyle. He watched, willing himself to be patient, as Eppes passed the end of the aisle that he was in.

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Don spoke into his headset. "Okay, David, I'm back in the restroom. Colby says he's in the first aisle on the right as you head toward the wall, about two thirds of the way down. Get a line on him and tell us when he's got his back to the restroom. You approach from that side; we'll come from the other."

"Got you," said David. He slipped between the racks and paused at the first aisle, sneaking a quick look down it from behind the crates. According to Colby, Biggs should be in this aisle, watching the group. He saw nothing and waited a moment, frowning, then shot another look around the crate. Nothing. Where in the hell did he go? He spoke quietly into the headset. "He's not there. I'm going to take a look."

Biggs had made it into the next aisle closer to the restroom, when he caught movement at the end of the aisle. There was a small empty space between two crates, and he squeezed into it. From his vantage point he could peer over the top without being seen. He saw the silhouette at the end of the aisle; it was unmistakably in ready position, creeping crouched, both hands on a weapon. Damn it. Somehow, they had figured out he was here. He sat in the small space for moment, his mind whirling, considering his options.

David had reached the back wall. He could see the restroom entrance several yards away, the light spilling out of it into the dark aisle. He spoke into his headset. "I'm at the back wall. I didn't see him, in any aisle."

Don swore softly. "All right. We're going to hit the lights in here, wait a couple minutes; then come out. Let us know if you see him." Colby hit the light switch, and they waited in pitch blackness for a moment, until their eyes had adjusted enough to pick up the dim outline of the doorway. Don spoke to Colby, but he left the headset on for David's benefit. "Let's move. We'll head to the left and go up those aisles. David, go back up the right side, the way you came."

Croyle's voice broke in over the headset. "I'm listening in. You guys tell me if you need reinforcements."

"Right," said Don. He crept out of the bathroom and crouching awkwardly, headed left to the opposite end of the aisle from David, Colby behind him. The brace was keeping him from crouching as low as he wanted to, making his gate awkward, and Don grimaced in frustration.

At the end of the rack they turned and began going up the ends of the aisles. At the first one, Don turned in, and motioned Colby up toward the next aisle. Don saw David take up a position at the other end, waiting, as he crept forward. As he passed gaps in the boxes, he could see Colby traveling along the next aisle in the same direction. He had just passed another of those gaps, when he heard the voice behind him.

"Hands up, Eppes."

Don froze and slowly lifted his hands, his heart lurching. How in the hell had he passed Biggs without seeing him? He saw David start to come down the aisle, as his gun was wrenched from his hand, and an arm went roughly around his neck. The cold metal of a gun barrel pressed into his temple, and he spoke, his calm voice at odds with tension in his gut. "Just relax, Biggs, there's no way you're getting out of here."

Biggs was pulling him backwards, and the brace was resisting, not bending. Don was forced to keep his weight awkwardly on one leg.

Biggs sneered. "Oh, I am getting out of here, and you're my ticket, Eppes." Don heard David's voice in his headset, then Croyle's. Biggs heard it too, but he couldn't reach it; both hands were occupied. He released his grip enough to yank on the wire and pull the earpiece out, and Don tried to pull away, but he couldn't get leverage standing on just one leg, and Biggs immediately tightened his grip. "Back off," he snarled at David, who was advancing with his weapon leveled. "Back off, or I blow his head off."

Biggs was aptly named, he was a big man; his arms powerful. His grip had tightened around Don's neck, and breathing was becoming difficult. The pistol pressed harder into Don's temple. He gasped for air, and thought suddenly of his father and Charlie. His gut clenched at the thought. Charlie had warned him, made him promise, and he had screwed up. God _damn_ it. This would kill them. He closed his eyes as emotion surged through him, fighting for control.

Colby was positioned in the other aisle, just a few feet from Biggs, separated only by the width of two crates. Biggs hadn't seen him; he was concentrating on David with an occasional glance at the other end of the aisle. From where Colby stood, he had a clean shot at him. Biggs was saying something; and Colby strained to hear.

"You're a dead man, Eppes," snarled Biggs. "As soon as we're out of here, you're gone. I'm gonna plaster you on the highway like roadkill."

Colby's breath caught. Croyle's voice came crackling through the headset. "I understand the situation. We've got people stationed out here when he comes out toward the door. Remember, we need him alive."

Colby could hear David's voice through the headset, trying to reason with Croyle. "We can't let him get out with Don. We have an agent's life on the line."

Croyle's voice burst through the earpieces, furious. "_I'm_ lead agent here, _I_ call the shots. You _will_ follow orders."

Colby's mouth set in a grim line. _'Where have I heard that before?' _He thought back to the private vow he had made after the Edgerton case to himself, to Charlie, to his team. Orders be damned. He raised his pistol slowly, propping it on the crate in front of him, and drew a bead on Biggs' head. He paused for just a moment. Biggs adjusted his grip and as he did so, moved his head backwards slightly, further away from Don's, and Colby squeezed the trigger.

The report echoed through the warehouse. Don felt Biggs fall backwards, and he staggered as the weight was suddenly released. David ran forward grabbing his arm, as Don tried to get suddenly-weak knees to work. He pulled himself upright with an effort, staring at Biggs, as Colby ran around the end of the aisle and headed toward them. They looked in silence at the ruined mess that was Biggs' head, and then both looked up at Colby.

Croyle and Dugan came charging up behind him, and agents gathered at either end of the aisle. Megan ran up behind them from the other direction. Croyle screamed in fury. "What in the hell was that? Who did that?"

"I did," said Colby calmly.

"Can't you follow orders? I gave the order to take him alive!" Croyle's face was red, and spittle was coming from his lips.

"Oops," said Colby emotionlessly. He knew that he shouldn't have said that, but the man was pissing him off. He held out his headset, the earpiece in one hand, the wires and the device in the other. "My headset wasn't working."

Croyle's mouth opened, then closed. "It was working, I heard you talking."

"That was me," said David quietly. "I was wondering why you never said anything, Colby." He looked at Croyle calmly. "Go ahead and play back the transmissions, if you recorded them. I think you'll find that Agent Granger never spoke."

Don rubbed the back of his head, and stifled a grin, which faded as he heard Croyle's next words, which were angrily directed at Colby.

"You'll be facing charges for this."

"Nonsense," said Dugan quietly. "You can see that the man's headset is broken." He looked down the aisle and called to two agents. "Wiley. Jamison." He jabbed a thumb over his shoulder at Biggs' body. "Take care of that asshole." He addressed the rest of the agents. "Let's get back to work. We have a raid to pull off."

He turned away, and Croyle followed him, protesting. "But now we have no idea whether they've been tipped off or not."

"All the more reason to get busy and finish planning this thing," Dugan's calm voice floated back to them, as they headed down the aisle. "Just be glad you don't have to explain how an agent that was supposed to be on restricted duty almost got killed."

David looked at Don. "You okay?'

"Yeah," said Don. He drew a shaky breath, looking at Biggs and shaking his head as if in disbelief. He looked up at Colby. "Thanks," he said simply, his eyes holding Colby's.

Colby grinned slightly. "You know I was never very good at following orders." His face sobered. "I guess I learned my lesson on the last case."

The rest of them nodded in silent agreement.

"Yeah," said Don softly. "I think we all did."

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Don was up at 8:00 a.m., after three hours of exhausted sleep. The raid had gone well, in fact beyond all expectations. As planned, the smugglers had been caught, along with several gang leaders, and at least one notorious high-ranking drug lord. Shots had been fired, but only two agents had been wounded, and the gun battle was blessedly brief, once the smugglers realized the size of the force against them. Sitting in the warehouse and monitoring the communications had been more nerve-wracking for Don than it would have been to participate in the raid, and then there was the aftermath. It had taken hours to pull off and to deal with it all, processing prisoners and inventorying the drugs, and they hadn't gotten back to the apartment until the wee hours of the morning.

Don sat for a moment on the edge of the bed, exhausted, but grateful just to be there, grateful it was over. He reached for his cell phone and flipped it open. He spoke quietly; Megan was in the next room, undoubtedly still asleep. "Hey, Dad? It's me. We're done. Yeah. I'm coming home Saturday. Nah, it was a piece of cake."

-----------------------------------------End Chapter 6-----------------------------------------------------------


	7. Chapter 7

**Chapter 7**

Friday afternoon, Dr. Bradford opened his office door and looked out into the waiting room. "Dr. Eppes?" He held the door as Charlie rose. '_By himself today_,' noted Bradford. That was a good sign.

They sat, Charlie automatically choosing the overstuffed armchair, and Bradford sat across from him, quietly taking in his appearance. The young man looked calmer, not quite as anxious, but he looked tired, and it didn't look like he had added any weight.

"So, how's it going?" asked Bradford.

Charlie put his elbows on the arms of the chair, and shrugged. "Okay."

"Just okay?"

"The panic attacks are better. I've been jogging every day."

"What about the anxiety?"

Charlie sighed. "Still there."

"Eating okay?"

Shrug.

Bradford looked at him, eyes narrowed. "You need to be a little careful with that. SSRI's can promote anorexia." His eyes flickered over the young man's gaunt frame. "You don't have a lot of room for error in that department. Even if you don't feel like it, you have to make yourself eat."

Charlie nodded, and looked away.

"How've you been sleeping?"

Charlie looked down at his hands. "Not too well. I've never been very big in that department anyway."

"How much sleep do you think you're getting a night?"

Charlie lifted shoulder in a half-hearted shrug. "Maybe three, four hours at the most."

Bradford frowned. "That's not enough. Are you taking a lorazepam at bedtime?"

Charlie nodded. "Three of them."

"Three -," Bradford sputtered a little. "Dr. Eppes, I have you on a pretty hefty dose. There's no way that you should be taking three at once. You realize that lorazepam is addictive?"

Charlie shrugged and stared at his hands.

"In fact, I was going to start weaning you off it this week. You should be starting to feel the effects of the SSRI." Bradford frowned. "The SSRI can also cause insomnia. You need to be sure to take it in the morning."

"I do. It's not that," said Charlie. He glanced up at Bradford, then away. "I've still been having nightmares."

"Mansour?"

Charlie nodded, and glanced sideways at him. "They wake me up, and then I can't get back to sleep."

"And what do you do instead?"

"Usually, I go down to the garage and work."

"That sounds like fun."

Charlie shrugged. "It takes my mind off it."

"It's an escape."

"Maybe." He sighed and looked down. "I don't know; it's more than that. I can't help it sometimes."

"What do you mean?"

Charlie looked up at him, with an expression that looked like a plea. "It's like my brain is going a hundred miles an hour. The information is just-,' he waved his hands, searching for words, "-exploding out of it. I have to get it out."

"Did you do that when you had your other episodes of anxiety?" Bradford looked down at his notes and read aloud. "At Princeton, when your mom died, when Don got shot."

A veil came over the face. "Yes."

"And what was the longest time period when you felt compelled to do this?"

Charlie looked away. "Three months. When my mom was dying."

Bradford looked at him for a moment. "You were close to your mom."

Charlie swallowed, and nodded.

"And she understood this, this need to work?"

Charlie looked down, fighting to keep control of his features. "I think so. Dad said she did."

"You never talked to her about it?"

A look of sheer pain crossed the young man's face, and he looked down and closed his eyes. The next words were so low that Bradford could hardly hear them. "I don't want to talk about that."

Bradford regarded him thoughtfully. "What you've been going through, lately, how does it make you feel?"

Charlie snorted softly. "Not good."

"Give me some descriptive adjectives."

Charlie paused for a moment. "Painful. Frustrating." He looked away. "Irrational. Scary." He paused again. "I feel out of control. Like I want to hide somewhere."

"Somewhere like in your work," Bradford said.

It was a statement, not a question, and Charlie nodded, then sighed. He ran a hand over his face. "I feel like I'm going crazy. I can't go out in public without feeling terrified. I'm a teacher. How am I going to go back to school?"

Charlie looked at him, and Bradford could see the fear and despair in his eyes. He felt a twinge of disquiet, but spoke reassuringly. "The first thing you need to know is that you are not going crazy. You are having a reaction to a horrific event. If you didn't react, it would be crazy. But being you, your reaction is stronger than most."

Charlie frowned. "What do you mean, being me?"

Bradford sighed. "Dr. Eppes-,"

"You might as well call me Charlie."

"Okay. Charlie. There is something you have to realize about what you're going through. By your own admission, you've been through something like this before, maybe not this bad, for all I know maybe worse. It is quite possible that you will go through it again some day. You are going to be prone to this – it has to do with the way you are wired. Even when you recover from this, and you will, it will likely happen again." He paused for a moment and watched as a look of despair flitted over his patient's face.

Bradford continued. "There is a good side to it, although you may not realize it. Obviously, the way your brain is wired includes your exceptional intelligence. The very thing that generates the anxiety symptoms also fires periods of extreme creativity for you, and creates the opportunity for you to experience intense feelings on all ends of the spectrum. You have the ability to feel highs and lows on a scale that some people never achieve. There is good that comes with this – and it is an integral part of your genius."

"I want you to take your work in the garage as an example. You act as though feel a little guilty about it. It actually can be a good thing, if you use it as an outlet for inspiration. If you let it take over and interfere with things like eating, sleeping, and relationships with others, it can become a bad thing. I know it won't be easy, but you need to learn how to control it. You're in a box right now, one that you have largely created for yourself, and one that you've been letting yourself hide in. I know it's scary, but you have to fight your way out of the box. Get back out into life; get back on the horse, so to speak."

Bradford saw Charlie's head whip up at his last statement, surprise on his face. _'I hit a nerve there,_' he thought. "Are you with me so far?"

Charlie nodded, slowly, a thoughtful expression on his face. "Yeah."

Bradford eyed him for a moment. "We're going to do something a bit different now. We're going to do an exercise that explores your thoughts about yourself and your relationships with others, particularly your brother, who seems to be a touch point for you. This exercise today will be just a start – something for you to work on in future sessions if you choose."

Charlie shrugged, noncommittal. "Okay."

"I want you to answer these questions true or false. You're in the academic world; you ought to relate to that." Bradford leaned back in his chair. "These are in no particular order. You consider yourself to be successful in your field, true or false?"

'_This is easy enough,'_ thought Charlie. "True."

"You are more successful in your field than your brother is in his."

Charlie's head jerked up and he stared. "He's successful too."

"True or false."

"I think we're even."

"True or false," repeated Bradford patiently.

Charlie sighed. He _was _published, recognized throughout the mathematics community, heck, he even had higher government clearances than his brother. He had never compared their careers, though, and had always admired his brother's work. It certainly was a lot more exciting and glamorous than his own. He scowled and complained, "You know, that's not a fair question. You really can't compare what we do."

Bradford raised his eyebrows. "I'm not trying to. I'm talking about success in your own respective fields. Which of you has earned more recognition?"

Charlie scowled. "I have, I guess." Bradford jotted some notes and Charlie eyed him suspiciously. "What are you writing?"

"Do you really want to know?"

"Yes."

Bradford read aloud. "Refuses to speak negatively of his brother even when he privately thinks so."

Charlie's eyes flashed angrily. "Who said I thought so?"

Bradford rolled his eyes. "Let's move on. Your brother is better with people than you are."

No hesitation there. "True."

"Your brother has more success with women than you do."

Sigh. "True."

"Your brother is more likely to get married than you."

Charlie pondered. "I don't think that looks too good for either one of us."

"True or false."

"I don't know," said Charlie, exasperated. "True, I guess. He's dated a lot more than I have."

"You are smarter than your brother."

"In an academic sense, yes, I guess so," began Charlie slowly. "But when it comes to the real world -,"

"I'll mark true."

"Wait, I wasn't finished," protested Charlie. "You need to clarify the question."

Bradford ignored him. "Your father cares about you."

Charlie had a scowl on his face from the previous question, but his face softened at this one. "True. He's always there – he's been really good through all of this." He felt a spasm of guilt. _'This has been really hard on him too. I need to let him know how grateful I am.'_

Bradford watched the emotions flit over Charlie's face, then continued. "Your father cares about you more than your brother."

"False. I think he cares about us equally."

"Your mother loved you more than your brother."

Charlie's gut twisted, and he stared. "False," he said quietly.

"Your mother spent more time with you than your brother."

This response was even quieter. "True."

"No one has ever understood you as well as your mother."

"True." Charlie looked away, pale and somber, and Bradford watched him for a moment.

"You look up to your brother."

"True."

"Your brother looks up to you."

Silence. Bradford waited. Finally Charlie spoke quietly. "I don't know the answer to that."

"Just give me your perception."

"As a mathematician, or in general?"

"In general."

"I don't know," said Charlie quietly. "Sometimes I think he still thinks of me as the annoying little brother. False, I guess."

'_Interesting,' _thought Bradford. He hadn't performed this exercise with Don yet, but Don had talked about his brother in one of his sessions. What had he said? Bradford couldn't remember all of it, but the phrase had ended with '_and I respect the hell out of him.' _He continued. "Your brother uses you."

Charlie's head jerked up, and his dark eyes flashed defensively. "False."

"Your brother takes advantage of you."

Charlie stared back at him, stubbornly. The expression faded to grudging acquiescence. "Sometimes. True."

"You allow yourself to be used by others."

Charlie spoke through a clenched jaw. "Not any more."

"I'll mark that as false. You would do anything for your brother."

"True," said Charlie quietly.

"Your brother would do anything for you."

Silence. "If it was something really serious, he would help me out," said Charlie slowly. "But smaller things – I don't know. Not always – he's pretty busy."

"And you're not?"

Charlie shrugged and looked away.

"Your brother has always treated you kindly."

Charlie sighed, his mind flitting back to his high school days. "False."

"You bear a grudge against your brother for how he treated you when you were young."

Charlie scowled. "I don't know. Did it hurt? Yes. Do I bear a grudge? I don't think so."

"You can never measure up to your brother."

'_Maybe, once upon a time, in school,'_ thought Charlie sadly. _'In real life, no.'_ He spoke softly, an expression of defeat on his face. "True."

Bradford stared at him a moment. He had an inkling that Don Eppes would answer that question the same way. Those two really don't know where the other one is coming from, he thought. He played with his pencil, taking in his patient's air of dejection. He almost didn't have the heart to ask the last question.

He cleared his throat. "You love your brother more than he loves you." He watched as the emotions flitted over the expressive face, first pain; then resignation. His patient tried vainly to hide them with a sad smile, which came across as wry and twisted, and vanished almost as suddenly as it appeared.

Unable to hide the look in his eyes, Charlie looked away, and then closed them. "True," he whispered. He swallowed, and unexpectedly made eye contact, his gaze direct, and filled with pain. "It's always been that way."

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End Chapter 7


	8. Chapter 8

**Chapter 8**

Charlie lay in the darkness, waiting for sleep to come. He had only taken one lorazepam that night, conceding reluctantly to Dr. Bradford's instructions. The therapy session that day had exhausted him; maybe one pill would be enough tonight.

He sighed. Tomorrow was Saturday; Don would be home. He had felt a huge surge of relief when his father had told him Don had called and the operation was over, but the feeling was short-lived. Charlie had thought that the news that his brother would be coming home safely would improve things, alleviate the anxiety, help with the nightmares, but it hadn't been the case.

The nightmares were just as bad, if not worse, and the anxiety that lived in him when he was awake still drove him out to his boards, and made going out in public world something he wanted to avoid. He hated the thought that Don would come home and find that he was not better, that he hadn't made much progress, that he was still – not normal. Abnormal. Irrational. Weak. Don Eppes' brother, the nutcase.

He sighed again, and it reminded him of the breathing and relaxation techniques that Dr. Bradford had suggested. Might as well try them, he thought resignedly. Fifteen minutes later, he was asleep.

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_He looked around him, moonlight casting shadows through the trees. It was strange and familiar at the same time. He could feel a presence there with him, and he knew he had to get away. He began to run, falling and scrambling through the trees and brush, gasping for breath. He could hear the crashing sounds of footsteps behind him in the underbrush, and terror rose in his chest._

_Mansour's voice floated through the night air from behind him. 'You can't git away, boy. Yer marked, you unnerstand? Marked.'_

_Charlie ran desperately, full tilt, his arms and legs flailing as the ground suddenly gave way beneath him. He plunged down a hillside, rolling, hitting rocks and trees. At the bottom, he scrambled to his feet, but he seemed to be moving in slow motion, and as he straightened he was tackled suddenly from behind. _

_He landed on his back, Mansour staring into his face with a maniacal grin. The blows started, Mansour's fists landing on his face, his chest, Charlie vainly trying to ward them off, his hands up, trying to protect his face. He was suddenly moving again, Mansour was dragging him. Charlie struggled wildly, but couldn't escape the iron grip, and he gasped in fear as they passed through a pine thicket and into the canyon._

_Mansour fell on him hard, forcing the breath from his body, and pinned him to the ground. He reached for something, and Charlie saw the glint of the saw in the moonlight. Mansour twisted, pinning his legs, and Charlie felt the bite of the saw in his ankle. "NO!" he screamed. "NO!" He looked down in horror, in time to see his foot separate from his leg, and fall, blood-covered, onto the ground, and he screamed again. Mansour began shaking him, violently, but he kept screaming, writhing in fear and agony._

"Charlie! Charlie!" The hands were still shaking him, but he was suddenly not in the forest, and the ragged screams turned to gasps and sobs.

Alan's heart was pounding. He had been trying desperately to waken his son; it had probably only been for a minute or two, but the screams and the thrashing made it seem an eternity. The hall light gave off enough illumination that he could see Charlie's eyes flicker open, but the eyes looked unfocused, terrified, still seeing the horrible visions that had prompted the screams. Charlie was breathing so hard that the gasps were audible, frightening moaning and wheezing sounds that slowly began to recede, as recognition of where he was dawned in his eyes.

He struggled to sit up, and Alan let him, and wrapped his arms around him, awkwardly seated on the edge of Charlie's bed. "It's okay, little one," he crooned, just as he had when Charlie was small. He could feel the violent trembling in his son's body slowly recede, punctuated by sudden uncontrollable shudders. "It's okay, it's only a dream."

He felt sudden moisture on his wrist, and he looked to see where it was coming from. Tears were coursing down his son's cheeks and falling on his arm, and Alan's heart filled with pain at the sight.

"I can't do it, Dad," whispered Charlie. "I can't do this anymore."

The words struck fear into Alan's heart. "Charlie, yes, you can." The reply was quiet, but urgent. "You have to do it, you have no other choice."

"Yes I do." The response was delivered dully, with resignation.

Alan grabbed his son's shoulders and turned him, looking into his eyes. "Charlie, I never want to hear that again from you," he said, angrily. "I didn't raise you to be a quitter, and neither did your mother. What do you think she would say if she heard that?"

Charlie lifted his eyes, guiltily, and Alan continued in a softer tone. "You will get through this. It will take time, and you know that no one can do it for you. It won't go away by itself – you have to make it go away. But you will; I know you can do it."

He wrapped his arms around his son, trying to hide tears of his own that suddenly threatened, and spoke over his shoulder. "It's going to be okay – this is a temporary problem. You need to be strong, and face it. You need to decide how to do it, and whatever that is, you need to make up your mind and do it."

He ran a hand through Charlie's unruly curls and straightened, looking into his son's eyes with a wry, gentle smile. "God knows, you're stubborn enough. It really is a simple as that, son. Put your mind to it." Charlie raised his eyes; they were full of quiet pain, but he nodded, and Alan nodded back, reassuringly. "Now lie down and go back to sleep. I'll be here – I'm not going anywhere."

A full hour later, Charlie's breath was finally regular again, and Alan crept from the room. He had no idea that it was the last time he would see his son for over a week.

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_Charlie was in someplace small, dark, confined. He shifted, and he could tell from the movement of the box and the feel of the walls that it was made out of cardboard. Claustrophobia reared its ugly head, and Charlie panicked, punching and kicking, until he put holes in the box. He grabbed at them, tearing with all his strength, frantically, and finally burst through, standing, with the remnants of the box still around his legs._

_Bradford regarded him with approval. "That's good. You fought your way out of the box."_

_His father suddenly appeared next to Bradford, beaming. "You need to decide how to do it, and whatever that is, you need to make up your mind and do it."_

_A familiar voice came from behind him, and Charlie whirled awkwardly to see Ian Edgerton slouched behind him, leaning casually on a wall. "You have to get back on the horse," he said. "How many times do I need to tell you that?" He lifted his hand, and Charlie suddenly noticed that he was holding reins, and they were attached to a horse._

_He looked down and stepped out of the box uncertainly, and when he looked back up they were gone, except for the horse. He could see something off in the distance, beyond the horse's head. A hillside, a pine thicket – he realized suddenly it was the entrance to Mansour's canyon. He approached the horse; it tossed its head as if nodding encouragement; and he swung himself up in the saddle. He looked around for a moment, hoping to see his father again, but he was still alone. Turning the horse's head, he started off at slow walk, headed for the canyon._

Charlie's eyes opened slowly, and he looked up at the ceiling, the dream still vivid, lingering in his memory. He glanced at the alarm clock – 3:00 a.m., he noted – and he swung his legs over the side of the bed, slowly pulling himself into a sitting position. He was filled with a sense of purpose – he suddenly knew what he needed to do, and now that he knew, he couldn't wait; impatience to get started was overwhelming him. Just to be sure, he pinched himself, to make certain that he wasn't sleepwalking, and then he rose quietly and began to gather his clothes.

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The ticket clerk eyed the thin young man in front of him. "Where to?"

"Santa Clarita. One way."

The ticket clerk glanced at him as he processed the bus ticket, taking in the backpack that looked almost as big as its wearer. "Going hiking, huh?"

"Yeah."

"You'll have to stow that in the storage compartment." Charlie saw the ticket price come up on a small digital screen in front of him and pushed cash across the counter, and the clerk pushed the ticket and change back at him. "Bus leaves in 45 minutes, terminal C."

Charlie walked slowly to a group of chairs, pulled off his backpack, and sat. It was 5:30 a.m., still dark outside, and the fluorescent lighting in the station made faces around him look tired and gray. He could feel anxiety rising in his chest, and he was starting to second-guess himself. Maybe he should just drive up there. The car would give him more flexibility. '_And more opportunity to change my mind,' _he told himself. _'More opportunity to hide.'_ The bus ride was the first step; there was no solitude on a bus; it would force him to be with people.

He sat and went over his preparations mentally. Extra clothes, small propane heater for boiling water, sleeping bag, a one-man micro-tent that had never been used, languishing in the garage for two years. No cell phone; he wouldn't need it where he was going. No laptop; that was one of the conditions he had given himself. Matches, mess kit. Prescriptions, poncho. Soap and razor. He still needed food, but he would get that up there, once he had decided how long he was going to be there.

Before he knew it, the bus was there, pulling in with a hiss and a creak, and his stomach clenched with a sudden stab of fear. _'No going back now,'_ he told himself. Moments later he was moving, seated in the front seat on the opposite side of the driver, looking out of the front of the bus to fight off the motion sickness.

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Charlie shot off the bus as soon as it hit Santa Clarita, certain that he was going to lose his granola bar. Now he remembered why he didn't ride buses. In spite of sitting in the front, the motion sickness had nearly overwhelmed him. He waited impatiently for the driver to open the cargo compartment; the fumes from the bus exhaust intensifying the nausea, and as soon as he had his pack, he headed quickly up the sidewalk. When he was a good block away from the infernal bus, he stopped, trying to get his bearings, and waited for his stomach to settle.

There was a gas station on the corner, and he headed into it, looking for maps. He selected a county map and pushed it across the counter at wiry man with gray hair and dour expression that Charlie suspected was permanent.

"Is there a camping store around here?" asked Charlie.

The man grabbed the map and opened it to a sub-map of Santa Clarita, jabbing at a spot with a tobacco-stained forefinger. "'Bout six blocks up, toward the north end of town."

Charlie dug out cash and paid for the map, heading north. He was on a main street, a part of town that appeared to be renovated, with generous sidewalks. It was still early, a little before 8:00, but there were people out. There was a crowd in front of a café that offered breakfast, and as Charlie pushed through them, he could feel the familiar stab of anxiety. He fought it down and made it to the street corner, and as he glanced sideways up the cross street, he saw the hospital.

He stopped for moment, suddenly taken with the memory of leaving it with his father. It seemed like an age ago, but the recollection was crystal clear. He could still feel the pain, the deep despair, the sense of loss. He was abruptly overcome by an intense need to see his brother. Maybe he should have waited until later today to leave, after he saw Don, he thought, but he knew in the back of his mind what had driven him away so early. Shame at his weakness, his lack of progress. He couldn't face Don until he could show him that he was better, that he had regained control.

And if he couldn't? What if this didn't help? He pushed the thought away, a deep undercurrent of fear cutting through him. He knew he couldn't go on the way he was much longer. If this didn't work, what would be left for him? Would he have the courage to go on? The stoplight changed, people surged around him, causing a sudden stab of panic. He could feel his knees start to shake, and he fought for control. '_Keep moving,_' he thought. _'Don't think, just act.' _

He pushed forward, resolutely, and by the time he got to the camping store, the panic had subsided into simmering anxiety. He found a section of food packaged for hikers, and stood, trying to marshal his thoughts. How many days? One? Three? Five? He finally gathered up enough food for four days – protein bars, freeze dried meals – lightweight, easy to carry. If he had leftover food, it would be the least of his worries.

Outside the store, he stuffed the food in his backpack, and continued to head north. At the outskirts of town, he took a deep breath. Next step, part of the "interact with people" program. He turned backwards, and lifted his thumb. He felt a little awkward; he had never hitchhiked before. Did he look as awkward as he felt? What if no one stopped?

He was almost astonished when a red pickup pulled over to the side. He trotted over to it, heart thumping, and stood in shock as the driver turned to face him. He was staring at Mansour.

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End Chapter 8


	9. Chapter 9

**Chapter 9**

Alan rose at eight, and before he even thought about getting showered, he peeked into Charlie's room. He sighed at the sight of the empty bed. Charlie's nightmares had undoubtedly chased him down to the garage again. He headed for the shower with resignation, and dressed quickly. He would fix breakfast, and try to get his son to come in and eat. Thank God, Donnie was coming home today.

In the kitchen, he put coffee on, and grabbed a mug. He didn't see the note on the table until he turned. He picked it up with a frown, and then suddenly grabbed the edge of the table as his knees went weak. He sank slowly into one of the chairs, his eyes still riveted to the note, trying to figure out what the two cryptic lines meant. It didn't sound rational, and fear rose in his heart as he thought of his conversation with Charlie the night before.

He jumped up suddenly, and reached in a panic for the phone, dialing frantically He heard ringing in the receiver, then an odd buzzing noise and a thump, coming from the dining room. He looked into the room, and his heart sank. Charlie's cell phone had vibrated itself off the dining room table, and sat forlornly, uselessly on the dining room floor.

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The apparition spoke, its voice normal. "Where you headed?"

Charlie shook himself. This was not Mansour. The eyes were different; the voice rational, the man was a few years older. Other than that, though, he could be Mansour's twin. Charlie realized he was staring, and tried to collect himself. "Los Padres," he stammered.

The man nodded. "I'm headed up to Ventucopa. Los Padres is on the way. Hop in."

Charlie threw his backpack in the bed of the truck, his heart hammering, and climbed in the cab. He glanced sideways, but the sight was too much for him, and he wrenched his eyes forward to stare out of the windshield.

Willy Starks glanced at his passenger. The kid appeared petrified. He took another look. On closer inspection, he wasn't a kid, he realized. He looked young, though, and scared. "You okay?"

Charlie shot him an apologetic look. "Sorry, this is the first time I've done this."

The man grinned back at him wolfishly. "First time's always a little nerve-wracking. You can't help but think you'll end up with some kind of serial killer."

Charlie paled and looked back toward the windshield. "Right," he gulped.

"I'm William Starks. Folks call me Willy."

Charlie shot him a cautious look. "I'm Charlie."

"Pleased to meet ya, Charlie. I used to hitchhike a lot in my younger days." Willy launched into an animated conversation about his hitching adventures, and Charlie gradually felt the thumping of his heart slow. By the time they reached the park entrance he was so involved in one of Willy's stories; that he didn't realize for a moment that they were actually within the park boundaries.

Willy's question made his heartbeat quicken again. "Which trailhead?"

"The one just north of Elk Ridge." It was another half hour ride to get there, but the time seemed to fly. Charlie was only half-listening to Willy's stories now; growing apprehension was beginning to consume him. When Willy pulled into the parking area of the trailhead, he felt panic flare, and he pushed it back down with an effort. He looked at Willy. "Can I give you something for gas?"

Willy eyed him. The scared, hunted look was back. He smiled, instinctively trying to reassure the young man. "Heck no. It was on my way, besides, I figure I owe a little payback for all my rides when I was a kid." He paused, giving the young man a keen look. "Anyone know that you're going out on the trail? You always ought to leave word with someone, you know."

Charlie opened the door with an unsteady hand and slid out, his eyes down. "Yeah," he said, noncommittal. He glanced up. "Thanks for the ride."

"No problem," said Willy. He watched in his rearview mirror as the young man lifted his backpack out of the truck bed, and then pulled away, with a brief wave. Intense kind of guy, he thought. Seemed nice, though. He wondered briefly what had made the young man so nervous, and shrugged it off, cranking up the radio.

Charlie watched him go, suddenly stricken with doubt. He turned and looked at the trailhead, and icy fear began to creep through him. What on earth was he thinking? He couldn't do this. He felt suddenly exposed, vulnerable, and he moved closer to the board posted at the trailhead, as if to hide behind its meager cover. The warnings and closed signs had been removed, and the maps replenished. Charlie took one with shaking hands and clutched it to his chest, as a panic attack began its familiar, inexorable assault.

His knees felt suddenly weak, and he staggered over to a wooden bench at the edge of the lot, collapsing on it and bending over, trying to control his breathing. It was a monster of an attack, and at one point, his vision dimming, he was sure he was going to pass out, but somehow, he maintained consciousness. It eventually began to recede, but not all the way, it only came down to a point where barely-contained terror simmered in his gut. He sat, trying mightily to get control, to find the will to move. Two hours later, he was still sitting there.

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Don took a deep satisfied breath of L.A. smog, and climbed into his SUV. The noon sunshine peeked through clouds intermittently as he swung out of the airport, headed for Charlie's house. He smiled to himself. When did he start calling it Charlie's house? He had called it his father's house for so long, long after Charlie had bought it, out of habit. Somewhere along the line, he had made the conversion in his mind. His father's house or Charlie's house; it was still home to him, more than his apartment ever was, or ever would be.

He wondered how Charlie's session with Bradford had gone yesterday. He had called again that afternoon, hoping to reach his brother, and had gotten his father again instead, who told him Charlie was at his appointment. Don could only guess at how that was going. Bradford wasn't one to mince words, and Charlie wasn't exactly thick-skinned. In his current state he was even more vulnerable. Bradford might not have been the best match for him. He sighed and rubbed the back of his head. Who was he kidding? He had to admit, it felt strange to have his brother talking to the same shrink as he was.

Same shrink as he was. That sounded like something ongoing. Granted, he had gone back to Bradford recently, after Los Padres, but that was justified, it was a pretty traumatic situation. '_Just where am I with Bradford?_' Don wondered. _'Am I done with that?'_ He had a sneaking suspicion that Bradford would say no. In fact, Don himself had contemplated making another appointment on the plane trip home, to talk about a little incident that had involved a gun at his head.

Several minutes later, he pulled into his brother's driveway. He was abruptly overwhelmed with anticipation, tinged with a bit of anxiety, and he jumped out of the SUV, slamming the door in his haste. He had talked to his dad several times, but not to Charlie. His dad had given him reports, but how was his brother, really? He suddenly couldn't wait to see for himself.

More than that he thought, as he reached the front door, he was finally here to help, to offer support, comfort, a hug, whatever Charlie needed. He didn't bother to knock; he burst, full of anticipation, through the door. God knows, he wasn't the demonstrative type, but he was actually looking forward to it. A hug would be the first thing on the agenda.

His dad was sitting in an armchair his head down, but he lifted it as Don entered with a cheerful, "Hey Dad," and moved toward him. "Where's Charlie?" He stopped short at his father's expression.

Alan looked at him sadly, and held out a piece of paper with an unsteady hand. "He's gone," he said simply, his eyes filled with distress.

Don's heart plummeted. "What do you mean, gone?" He grabbed the note, thinking it would answer his question. It was in his brother's familiar scrawl, albeit a bit on the shaky side, but it raised more questions than it answered.

'_Dear Dad – I'm okay. Don't worry –I will probably be gone for a while - I've gone to get back on the horse. Charlie'_

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Charlie moaned softly, his face in his hands. He had been wrestling with himself for over two hours. There were now three vehicles in the parking lot; groups of hikers had arrived and had hit the trail, some of them long gone. If he didn't move soon, he would be here when the day hikers got back; like a pathetic version of a statue in a park. Or, more aptly, like some insane homeless derelict, mumbling to himself on the park bench. He shook himself, and grimaced, straightening. What were his choices, really? He only had one; failure was not an option.

He pulled a zipper open on his pack and took out his bottle of lorazepam. Thank God he had gotten the prescriptions filled yesterday. He had a full month's worth of each.

His hands trembling, he shook out a pill and stared at it, then shook out another and tossed them back. If ever a double dose was justified, it was now, he thought, shrugging off Bradford's warnings of addiction. One was just not going to cut it. Not for this. If he made it through tonight, he would start cutting back. Rising, he slowly shouldered his pack and took a deep breath. His legs began to move, almost independently of his brain, and a few steps later, he was on the trail.

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They sat in the kitchen, staring at the note. "It was here, on the table," sighed Alan. "I didn't know who to call. What does it mean?"

Don frowned at the note. Was Charlie being literal or figurative when he wrote it? Either way, it didn't make a lot of sense. The seemingly irrational words struck a chord of unease, and a small persistent fear took hold in his gut. He looked up at his father. "You don't remember him saying anything like this before?"

Alan shook his head.

"Do you know what he took with him?"

"His wallet is gone, his car keys obviously. He left his cell phone and his laptop here. I imagine he took some clothes, but he didn't take any of the suitcases – I checked."

Don sighed. "All right. I'll get hold of my guys. We'll see if we can get out an APB on his car, and start looking for credit card and ATM hits."

"Donnie." His father's voice was strangled, and Don looked at him sharply.

Alan continued, his voice shaking. "Last night, he had a terrible nightmare. I came in to talk to him about it and he -,"

"What?" asked Don, as Alan paused. The look on his father's face was turning the small pit of fear in his stomach into something more substantial.

Alan raised agonized eyes to him. "He said he couldn't take it anymore. I told him he had to, that he didn't have a choice, and he said yes he did."

Don felt his heart begin to drop. "What do you mean?"

"I – I think he was referring to -," Alan choked on the word suicide. "-ending it."

"What?" Don whispered. Alan just shook his head, miserably. They stared at each other, silently, each pale face reflecting the dread on the other.

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He passed by it the first time, hiking all the way to the end of the trail, and then turning back. On the way back, he passed by it again, and found himself standing at the trailhead once more. It was nearing five o'clock. He stood for a moment, staring at the parking lot, and then turned back to the trail.

Forty-five minutes later, he stood in front of the canyon entrance once more. The crime tape had been removed, but two stakes still guarded the entrance. Little stubs of tape still clung to them, flapping wildly in the breeze, like miniature arms frantically waving a warning. Memories reached out to him from a black abyss like tentacles, and he forced them away, making his mind go blank. They were just trees, he told himself, looking at the thicket. Trees and rocks. He took a deep breath, and pushed his way into the pines.

On the other side, the memories assailed him again, harder, and he reeled, staggering forward on shaking legs until he stood in the center of the canyon, near the tree that Mansour had tied him to. All traces of what had happened had been removed by the compulsively detailed fingers of the crime lab workers, but in his mind's eye, Charlie could still see the ropes, the wires, the dirty towel littered with tools. The pines were sighing overhead, whispering stories of dread, and Charlie dropped to his knees with his eyes closed, suddenly overcome, as black memories rose in his mind.

He wasn't sure how long he stayed that way, kneeling like a pilgrim an awful shrine, but when he opened his eyes the sun was lower on the horizon. He roused himself, climbing painfully out of the position and stretching stiff complaining knees. It took only a few moments to put up his tent. He worked mechanically, unrolling his sleeping bag in the tiny space, and then turned to his backpack.

He stared into his pack for a moment, looking at his packets of freeze dried food, blankly. He was supposed to eat; he'd had nothing but a granola bar all day. He didn't have the will to try to cook anything. Numbly, he grabbed a protein bar and a bottle of water, but the first bite stuck in his throat. He tried to swallow, but the unbidden memory of a dismembered body overcame him and he crawled frantically away from his tent, heaving.

He sat for a moment, catching his breath, and crawled back over to his pack. With shaking hands, he pulled out the bottle of lorazepam and greedily swallowed two more pills, then sat with his arms around himself, rocking back and forth slightly, waiting for night. When it came, he crawled into the tent, and slid into his sleeping bag, shaking, lying numbly on his back, like a death row prisoner on a gurney, awaiting lethal injection.

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He had known the dreams would be bad, but he was unprepared for the unrelenting stream of horror. One heart-stopping nightmare followed another; he would lie shaking after each one; each time a little more beaten, a little more consumed by despair. This wasn't going as planned; he was never going to make it through the night.

At around three a.m. he woke screaming in agony once again, and pulled himself up to a sitting position, nearly delirious with terror. He sat shaking for a moment as the vivid pictures faded, more graphic than any slasher film ever created, and fumbled for his backpack, tears of despair streaming down his face. He would never be free of this, never.

He pulled the bottle of lorazepam from his pack, shook two tablets into his trembling hand, and paused, mesmerized by the sight of the rest of the pills in the bottle. There were enough pills there, he was sure. Peace was there in his palm, permanent peace, a few swallows away. It would be so easy. The wind sighed in the pines again, murmuring agreement, as he stared into the mouth of the bottle, into the abyss.

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End Chapter 9


	10. Chapter 10

**Chapter 10 **

The chipmunk scurried through the pine needles, which lay dappled by the early morning sunshine. It approached the tent, its nose quivering, eyes bright, and made its way to just inside the entrance by fits and starts, darting and stopping. It paused for a moment, taking in the inanimate pale form, and when it saw no movement, it crept inward, nosing its way into the pack. It nibbled its way through plastic into a granola bar, and sat quietly feeding, as the pine trees sighed softly above it.

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Don sat in the waiting room of Dr. Bradford's office, as the doctor pushed in from the hallway, running late, breathing a little heavily. He eyed Don dourly as he passed him to unlock the door of his office. "You'd better have a good reason for dragging me out on a Sunday morning," he groused.

"If you would have answered the messages your service left you, we could have met yesterday afternoon," Don shot back, rising to his feet. He followed Bradford in, and paced with pent up energy.

Bradford indicated chairs, and they sat. "What is the issue here? Charlie can't come in to talk to me himself?" He eyed Don with an acerbic smile. "Or does this have more to do with the fact that Charlie is seeing me as well?"

"Don't start that," Don said, his jaw set angrily. "Charlie's missing. What in the hell did you say to him, anyway?"

Bradford frowned. "Missing? When?"

"He left in the middle of the night sometime, early Saturday morning. Dad was up with him at a little before one, trying to wake him up from a nightmare. He stayed with him until he fell asleep, around two a.m. He was gone when Dad got up in the morning."

Bradford's eyes narrowed. "Do you know if he took any sleeping pills?"

"No, we don't think so. He took his car, clothes and his wallet, and he left a note."

"The note didn't tell you anything?"

Don handed it to him. "Read it yourself. We were hoping you could tell us."

Bradford read it, forehead furrowed in concentration. "Yes, I do remember saying something to him about getting back on the horse. I can't give you the details of our conversation, you understand. I used it as a figure of speech. He reacted it to it when I said it; it looked like it struck a chord with him somehow."

Don felt a pang of disappointment. "That's it? No talk about a place, about going anywhere specific?"

Bradford shook his head. "He might have taken me literally, but I'm afraid I have no clue as to where he would go. Maybe you should just give him a little space."

Don sighed. "That was my first reaction too. Dad's worried though." He looked up, his brows knit. "He thought that Charlie said something that sounded like a reference to suicide."

Bradford frowned. "Sounded like?"

"When he woke up from the nightmare, he said something on the order of "I can't take this anymore." Dad told him he had to, he didn't have a choice."

"That was it?"

Don shook his head slowly. "Charlie told him, 'yes, I do.' I know, the words themselves don't mean much; but Dad said that the way he delivered them – well, I guess it rattled him. He's pretty upset."

Bradford frowned and rubbed his forehead. A slight feeling of unease settled in his stomach. "One of the medications that Charlie is on, the SSRI, has been documented as sometimes causing increased thoughts of suicide. It seems to have more of that effect on children, but there have been rare instances in adults."

Don paled. He had been hoping for some reassurance from Bradford, and instead he was hearing this.

Bradford continued. "I need to talk to Charlie directly. If he has had any thoughts along those lines, we should think of switching to a different SSRI, fluoxetine, for example." He paused and looked at Don. "I have to admit, it does surprise me a little to hear this. Charlie's main symptoms have had to do with anxiety, not depression. However, sometimes extreme cases of anxiety can lead to depression. The brain can only take such intense levels of stress for so long."

Don cleared his throat, trying to get rid of the lump that had settled there. "So you're advising me we should try to find him." He already had started looking, but he wanted to hear it from Bradford.

Bradford regarded him levelly. "After hearing this, I think it would be wise, yes." He watched as Don closed his eyes; then opened them slowly. The concern in his face was real, Bradford realized. Contrary to what Charlie thought, his brother obviously cared a lot about him. Not that Don Eppes would do a good job expressing those feelings. Lack of communication, issues from childhood – the two of them certainly had a lot to wade through, and both of them seemed intent on burying it. "Not what you wanted to hear."

Don grimaced. "I was just trying to figure out what to tell my Dad."

"How about the truth? Being open? I suspect that your father would be better off knowing what's happening rather than trying to keep him in the dark to spare him from worry. A worry, I might add, that would most likely increase if you kept him uninformed. This is an area that both you and your brother need to work on."

Don scowled. "What's that supposed to mean?"

Bradford sighed. "It shouldn't come as a surprise that you and your brother have some issues to work out. Do you ever talk about anything that's not work-related?"

Don looked at him defensively. "Hey, we're not a demonstrative kind of family, all right? We do okay." '_What in the heck did Charlie say to him?' _Don wondered. He glowered at Bradford and lobbied a shot of his own. "I can't say how much good therapy is doing either one of us. Charlie wouldn't be off somewhere now, if it hadn't been for something you two talked about."

Bradford eyed him levelly. "You could be right," he said calmly. "But from what you're telling me, he could have been somewhere a lot worse."

They glowered at each other in silence for a moment, antagonism thickening the atmosphere. Don rose; his jaw set in anger, and picked up Charlie's note from Bradford's desk. "Trust me; I _am_ going to find him. It would probably go a lot faster if you decided to help."

Bradford sighed at his patient. Now was not the time to try and work through Don's control issues. He looked up at the agent and met his eyes. "That's what I'm here for, believe it or not."

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Charlie slowly opened his eyes. The morning light made shadows dance on the thin fabric of the tiny tent, and he watched them for just a moment, mesmerized. Thoughts of the night before stole into his mind, creeping like cold fingers, making him shudder involuntarily. He had come so close…Somehow he had summoned the will to put the cap back on the bottle; to put it back in his pack. He had fallen back into a fitful sleep, riddled with dreams. Each time he woke from them, he was aware of the presence of bottle in his pack, sitting, beckoning him, but he never took it out again. He had fought off the temptation; somehow he had made it until morning.

The realization of where he was; what he had just done, suddenly seized him and he smiled; an amazed, incredulous smile. He was still here. He had made it. He had faced the worst that Mansour had to offer, and he was still standing, or lying anyway, looking at sunlight, drinking in fresh air. A laugh was wrenched out of his gut, pulled from him without permission, and then he was laughing and crying at the same time, uncontrollably.

The outburst sobered him a little and he crawled awkwardly to his knees, still smiling, almost quivering with emotion. The feeling of joy, of relief, was a little too intense, and he plowed into his backpack, and pulled out the lorazepam, staring at the bottle for just a moment. It was just a bottle, just pills, he told himself. He was in control. He shook two tablets into his palm and closed the bottle firmly, then downed them and followed them with his daily SSRI dose.

It didn't occur to him, at least not consciously, that he had just taken a double dose of the lorazepam again. Somewhere along the line, he had gone from one to two; twice the dose was now the norm. He felt the welcome little dizzying dip that he got when the medication hit, and then the feeling of calm that spread throughout his system like a blanket. He had done it. For just a moment, he felt invincible.

He crawled from his tent, and the sight of the canyon brought back a tendril of anxiety. He forced it to the back of his mind; he wouldn't let it ruin the moment. He still had work to do, he knew, but this was a start. It was a start.

Moments later, he was packed, and pushing through the pine thicket. He pulled out a granola bar as he hit the trail, letting his feet take him where they would. He felt without doubt that he was at the start of a journey – he had no idea how long it would take or where it would lead him. For now, though, he was moving, progressing; he was back on the horse, and that was enough.

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Don stepped into the office, and felt a surge of gratitude as he saw his team stationed at their desks. Fresh off the assignment, they had come back in yesterday without missing a beat, and were in again this morning. They really were exceptional, he thought, every one of them – a lead agent's dream team. Not for the first time, it occurred to him how lucky he was to have them. His glance rested on Colby for a second – solid, unflappable Colby. He owed him his life – and he owed all of them for being there for Charlie, during the Mansour case, and now, again.

Megan glanced up as Don approached his desk. "Any luck with Bradford?"

The others looked up as Don answered. "No," he sighed. "He remembers saying the thing about the horse, and he remembered that Charlie reacted to it, but that's it. Bradford said he used it as a figure of speech, but that Charlie may have taken it literally. They didn't talk about anything specific though, so he had no idea what it meant to him – why he reacted that way."

"Well, we've been checking out the literal interpretation," said David. "We've called every stable that offers horseback riding within a three hour radius of Los Angeles, but no luck. Every one of them makes their riders sign a waiver, so if he went to one, we should have picked him up. We're still looking."

"Nothing on the car yet, either," added Colby. "The APB is out for the L.A. area only. We weren't sure if you wanted to extend it or not."

Don knew what Colby was implying. He was already stretching it by putting out a bulletin for what in essence was a personal reason. LAPD was one thing; he and his team had a decent relationship with them, and they wouldn't question it. Extending the bulletin to the rest of the state was another story. Without proof that his brother was in danger, he really couldn't justify it, and there was no guarantee that it would be taken seriously anyway.

He shook his head wearily. "No, don't extend it, at least not for now."

Megan eyed him. "What did Bradford say about it?"

Her reference to Charlie's hint at suicide was unspoken, but Don knew what she meant. "He thinks we ought to try to find him," he answered quietly. "He said that it's possible the medication might be causing Charlie to have those thoughts; he wants to change it."

He looked up, and Megan could see a flicker of fear in his eyes. Quiet settled as they stared uneasily at each other across the desk.

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Charlie stopped for the night at the same place where he had camped with Don and his team the first night out on their hike. Shadows were descending by the time he got there, and he was exhausted. He was profoundly grateful he had taken Bradford's advice and started jogging; he must have gone at least ten miles that day; and the long hike and the lack of sleep had pushed him to the brink. The uneasiness was back as night fell; the specter of dreams hovered, and he tried to push it away.

He used his propane heater to heat water from a small spring, trying to conserve the small amount of bottled water he had brought. He poured some of it into a cup and let it cool, and used the rest to reconstitute one of the freeze-dried dinners. His hands were shaking; he was trying hard to hold off on the lorazepam until bedtime; he had already taken two double doses that day. The wind was picking up, and he pitched his tent hurriedly, while his food soaked up the hot water.

He ate hurriedly and dragged his pack into the tent, and sat cross-legged, hunched in the entrance, looking out over the campsite. Across the trail was the big rock where he had sat with his brother; where they talked about his breakup with Amita. In the dimness he could barely make out the black smudge of cinders that had been their campfire, and beyond it, the tree where Edgerton had leaned with his rifle, keeping watch. There was no Don tonight, no one keeping watch, and as blackness fell, Charlie was keenly aware of his aloneness.

The water in his cup had cooled enough to drink. He had stretched it out long enough. He rummaged in his pack and pulled out the lorazepam, and shook two of the tiny white tablets into his hand. He stared at them; then added another. He didn't want to chance another night like last night, he reasoned. If they kept the nightmares down, three were justified; in fact, considering what he was going through, he deserved three. Once he was through with this, he would taper off the dosage. He tossed them down and chased them with the tepid water, and waited for the chemical calm to spread through his system. Exhausted, he crawled into his sleeping bag, and prayed for oblivion.

The dreams that night were as unrelenting as the night before, one following another. There was one change, however; they were not as bloody. Charlie still dreamed of being pursued through the forest, of Mansour catching him, of the struggle and the beating, but in every case, he woke before they got to the canyon. He would find himself sitting upright, sweating, chest heaving, still fighting raw terror and exhaustion, but compared to the night before, it was manageable. Not unbearable, just nearly so. At least, it was until the storm hit. Los Padres was known for fierce thunderstorms that were brewed from moisture laden coastal air, and when one roared in at 3:00 a.m., all chances of sleep were gone.

The miniscule tent shook in the gusts until Charlie thought it would go airborne, and it wasn't long before everything he had was soaked through, including his sleeping bag and the clothes on his back. He sat and shivered in the darkness, as the lightening struck and the rain pelted around him, clutching the sodden sleeping bag to him in a desperate attempt for warmth.

It finally stopped at around five a.m., and as the light began to rise, Charlie crept from his tent, pulling his pack out with him. He was exhausted and cold, and anxiety and self-doubt were creeping in the corners of his mind. What was he trying to prove with this? He was shaking, and he knew it was from more than cold. He pulled the lorazepam bottle out with trembling hands and shook the pills into his hand.

Three of them landed into his palm, and he looked at the third almost with longing, but he dropped it back into the bottle resolutely. Two for daytime, three for night. He swallowed them, and almost as an afterthought, he took his SSRI. Bundling up his wet things onto his pack, he stepped on to the trail and stood for a moment, pondering. Home was beckoning, but he knew in his heart he wasn't ready. If he were home right now, he knew he would still be unable to fight off the need to retreat to the garage. He turned and headed up the trail, tired but resolute.

A few hours later, he was at the rocky outcropping. He paused for a moment and laid his hand on the huge tree he had been leaning against when Mansour had first taken him. He turned to look at the rock formation. Don had told him how Mansour had dragged his unconscious body up on the rock while the team had passed by unaware, and the thought sent a shudder down his spine. He stared for just a minute, then crossed the trail and began to climb.

At the top, Charlie stood for a moment, just taking in the view, and then sat for a moment. The sun had come out; it was warm, and he decided it was as good a place as any to try to dry out his gear. He spread his sleeping bag out, took off his shirt and his wet socks and shoes, and lay down to soak in the sun. Exhausted from the night before, he was asleep in minutes.

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"Hey, rock dude!"

Charlie started awake at the voice, dreams of Mansour still in his head, and pushed up, backing away crab-like from the two strangers in front of him.

A hand shot out and caught his ankle. "Whoa, dude, you're gonna go over, man."

Charlie flung a glance over his shoulder. He was just a few feet from going over into the crevice, a nasty drop, more than likely un-survivable. He blinked, and focused on the two young men in front of him. Tan, in their early twenties, both with long blonde hair, they grinned at him cheerfully.

One of them held out a joint. "Would you like to partake?"

Charlie pulled himself to a sitting position. Their goofy doped-up smiles almost made him want to grin himself. "No thanks."

He had gotten more offers for drugs in the last few weeks than he ever had in his life. First the gang members on the street, now these two. Not to mention Dr. Bradford. A vision rose in his mind of Bradford as a pusher, decked out in an oversized T-shirt and jewelry, and a bubble of laughter rose inside him – some of it getting out before he could control himself.

The two young men grinned back at him, and one looked at the other. "He's a jolly rock dude." That sent them off in an uncontrollable fit of laughter, and Charlie rubbed his forehead, trying to stifle a grin of his own.

They got hold of themselves eventually. "I'm Joey, this is Jerry," said one of them, while the other one took a hit. "We're from Santa Barbara."

"Charlie, from Pasadena," said Charlie, eyeing them. They were in their mid-twenties and looked like surfer-boy cliché's, and made even his more obtuse freshmen sound like Einsteins.

"I like Rock Dude better," said Jerry, and that made them snicker again.

"Where you headed?" asked Joey.

Charlie shrugged. "West."

"Us too," said Jerry.

"No, man, we're going east," argued Joey, and that set off a five minute conversation on which way was east, at the end of which Jerry looked still unconvinced. As they talked, Charlie rose stiffly and began to roll up his sleeping bag. He glanced at his watch. It was two in the afternoon; he had slept for four hours. He could feel the shakiness setting in, and as he packed, he surreptitiously slipped out two of his pills and tossed them down, feeling the familiar sensation of calm pervade him.

By the time his pack was back together a few minutes later, Joey and Jerry had finished their joint, and were in the process of devouring a bag of chips. Charlie eased by them, and started down the rock, trying to stifle a grin. "See you later."

"Later, Rock Dude," they chorused together, and dissolved into another fit of snickering.

Charlie clambered down, shaking his head, and headed back onto the trail. '_Thank God, I never got into drugs,'_ he thought, as he headed into the afternoon sun.

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End Chapter 10


	11. Chapter 11

**Chapter 11 **

It had been nearly four days since Charlie had left the rocky outcropping and made his way down the trail, and he was in trouble.

He had decided to make his way west; it looked like another three days of hiking to reach Wheeler Springs, a small town on Highway 33, in the center of the park. Charlie's plan had been to get that far, assess how he felt, and then to decide if he wanted to go any further. If he decided to continue, he would check in at home, and restock his provisions. If not, he would work on finding a way back to L.A.

The first day was uneventful. He had left the outcropping at around two, and had made better progress than expected, because the trail was downhill from there. The second day, the trail began to descend further and the terrain changed from pine forest to thick chaparral. The chaparral was largely impassable, and the trail snaked through the only openings, which were for the most part winding creek beds, the majority of them dry. The going got tougher, and following the trail became more confusing. Even so, he probably would have been all right if he hadn't gotten sick.

He still was plagued by the relentless anxiety, and relying heavily on the lorazepam to manage it. The dreams actually seemed to be improving – Mansour still inhabited them, but the first night after he left the outcropping, they were limited to him being chased; Mansour never caught him. It was a vast improvement, and Charlie began to think that he was making progress.

Things deteriorated rapidly after that. He began to feel the cold coming on the second day, undoubtedly brought on by his soaking the night of the storm, and by that evening he was running a fever.

The fever in turn fueled the dreams, and he spent a restless night, tossing and turning as the nature of the dreams morphed into something more sinister than they had been the previous night. He arose, exhausted and fighting anxiety, made even worse by the illness. That morning he upped the lorazepam to three, telling himself it was just temporary; he would ramp it back down again as soon as he felt better. During the day, the fever progressed. His thoughts were scrambled by the combination of the lorazepam and the fever; and he lost the trail, heading down a creek bed that turned out to be just that; a creek bed, and not the trail.

After several hours, he found it again, but he was now way behind schedule. He had been planning to hit Wheeler Springs that afternoon, but he was still almost a day away, out of food and water, with his fever spiking.

Darkness was falling, and he had reached his physical limit. He almost didn't set up his tent, but the sight of a skulking coyote in the chaparral spurred him to do it; the small tent didn't offer much protection, but it was better than none. He was aching, dehydrated, his brain and body barely functioning. He crawled into the tent, and reached for the only provision he had left – his pills. He swallowed them dry and burrowed into his sleeping bag, racked with chills.

Mansour was there with him again that night; the dreams were garish and violent, amplified by the fever. When the sun came up, he just lay there for a while, too sick to move, too tired of fighting. It was the first time since the canyon that the thought of quitting had entered his mind, and he let it dwell for a moment. He could just lie here, and go to sleep.

Somehow, in the deepest recesses of his soul, he pulled up his last shreds of determination, and fought off the thought. He staggered up, and stood swaying, staring at the sleeping bag and the tent, as he downed his pills with shaking hands. He had no energy to pack them, and no strength to carry them if he did. He picked up his pack and staggered away, leaving the tent and the sleeping bag behind.

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Don was at his wit's end. He and his team had canvassed every livery, run down every ATM and credit card report, every lead on a car that even remotely resembled Charlie's. The only thing they had found was an ATM hit at Charlie's bank, early the morning that he left, which was no help. Don had even swallowed his growing hatred of Edgerton and tried to contact him, thinking of Charlie's horseback trip with him. The man was unreachable, he was out of the country; and from the flat refusal he got when he asked for a contact number; Don assumed that Edgerton was on some clandestine operation.

Bradford called every day to see if there was progress. He had gone over his notes again and again, trying to come up with some insight as to Charlie's decision, but with no luck. Even Don had to grudgingly concede that the man actually seemed to care, although he would never admit it to Bradford's face.

Don was staying with his father at night; partly for support, and partly because he figured if Charlie called, he would call Alan, and Don wanted to be there if he did. Going home each evening was pure torture; however, each night he faced the look of hope in Alan's eyes, then watched it die a miserable death as he told him there was no news.

The afternoon of the sixth day that his brother had been gone, he sat slumped in his chair, his eyes fixed unseeing on the paperwork in front of him. It was almost time to head home, and face his father once more. Through it all, he had kept faith that somehow his brother was okay, but as time went on his hope was dimming, and he was finding it more difficult to keep generating confidence, to keep up his father's spirits. He didn't know that by the end of the day, they would finally get a lead, the first one since his brother had left.

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Charlie staggered out onto Highway 33, and stopped. It took a moment for him to even realize that he had hit highway; he had been starting to hallucinate, and wasn't sure for a moment that it was real. He looked from side to side, swaying on his feet. There was nothing, no sign of civilization, nothing but miles of chaparral, and he had no way of know which way Wheeler Springs was, because he wasn't sure which trail he had come out on.

He took a guess, and began weaving his way north. When he heard a vehicle approaching, he would stick up his thumb, but the drivers, taking one look at his disheveled and seemingly drunken appearance, passed him by, and Charlie had no energy to try to wave them down.

At times, dizziness would overtake him, and he would stop, staring blankly, panting, until it receded, and then start his slow stagger again. He was beyond fear, beyond caring, he was now moving purely on willpower, driven by the foggy notion in the back of his head that he needed to find a phone, and call his dad.

He could see a car approaching from the other direction, and even though it was on the other side of the road, he put up his thumb again. He stared, uncomprehending, as it suddenly veered toward him, swerving dangerously, wild yells and hoots coming from the occupants, and it pulled in behind him, facing the wrong direction, in a cloud of dust.

He turned toward it, awkwardly and off balance, as two figures piled out, beaming. "Rock Dude!" they yelled, and in the next moment, they were beside him, clapping him on the back and shoulders, Charlie trying to keep his footing.

Joey regarded him. "You look like shit, man."

"Don't feel so good," Charlie managed weakly. "Need a ride."

"Where to?" asked Jerry.

Charlie shook his head, swaying. "Don't know. Need some water, a phone."

Jerry grinned at Joey, and slung his arm around Charlie, guiding him toward the car. "Let's bring him with us."

They took Charlie's pack and threw it in the trunk, and helped him into the backseat, where he collapsed gratefully. Joey jumped into the driver's seat and turned. "Okay, Rock Dude, you're going to Santa Barbara. We'll fix you up, man. You can party with us."

He turned forward and started the car, and it lurched back out onto the freeway. Charlie was lying against the door with his eyes closed, and he felt something hard and cold land in his lap. He looked down to find a can of high octane soda, the type that was loaded with extra caffeine and sugar. His students lived on it, but he normally didn't touch it. He popped the top, and closed his eyes in gratitude as the cold liquid hit his throat. He was certain that it was the best thing he had tasted in his life.

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Darla Wells swiped at the bar counter with a rag. She was working the day shift, and it was winding to a close. Benny's was a little dive of a bar, but it was homey. It was late afternoon; a few of the University of California Santa Barbara students had piled in after classes, and were squeezed into booths, drinking pitchers of beer. A crowd of the regulars were already there, a collection of career beach bums and surfers, their carefree lifestyles funded no doubt by wealthy parents, because none of them held a regular job. Benny's was a natural hangout for them, close to East Beach, where they spent their days.

They were a fun crowd, laid back, happy and harmless, and spent plenty of money on alcohol – just the kind of a clientele a bar owner loved. Darla had worked there long enough that she knew most of them, and they knew her. At forty, she was a mother figure to a lot of them, including some of the ones that were near her age. She looked up as two more of them burst into the bar, Joey and Jerry, exuberant partiers both, yelling greetings.

"Hey guys," crowed Jerry, using the term generically, because there were women in the group. "Look who we brought with us – this is Rock Dude." They had propelled, almost dragged, a slight man in with them, and Darla watched, with a small smile of amusement, as they paraded their new friend through the crowd.

Her eyes narrowed as she saw him sway on his feet – he already looked two sheets to the wind. He was disheveled, wore a few days worth of stubble, and had a head of dark curly hair. "Kind of cute," she decided, even though he was dirty, and appeared out of it.

Joey approached the bar. "Hey gorgeous. I need three shots of Beam." He grinned at her happily.

She pulled out shot glasses, and quirked an eyebrow at the newcomer. "Who's your friend?"

"That's Rock Dude – we met him out hiking on the trail. I think his name is Chad something or other. No wait – Charlie something."

"Is one of these for him? He looks like he's already had too many."

"No way, he hasn't been drinking – we just picked him up off the trail. He's not feeling good." Joey grinned at her conspiratorially. "We're gonna fix him up. Put it on my tab."

"I don't know if that's such a good idea," she warned, but she handed him the shots anyway.

"Sure it is," he smirked as he turned away with the shots. "It's cough medicine."

It was almost time for her shift to end, and Benny, the bar owner, waddled up next to her, ready to take over. "Better keep an eye on that one," she said indicating Charlie. "He's looks drunk already. Joey said he's not feeling well, but either way, he doesn't look good. I'm gonna go wipe down those tables and then I'm out of here."

"Got it, doll," said Benny. "Have a good one."

"I need a phone," Charlie was insisting weakly, as Joey walked up with the shots. "And a hotel. Is there a hotel close by?" He put a hand to his forehead. It was pounding; the fever was spiking again, and all he could think of was finding a bed. The soda had perked him up, but just a little. The caffeine had made him feel strange and jittery, and he had pulled the lorazepam out of his pocket and downed three of them in the car. He needed food, but he needed additional fluids and sleep more.

He found a shot glass suspended in front of his nose, and he looked at it, trying to focus as a wave of dizziness swept over him. Joey thrust it at him, and Charlie grabbed it reflexively, before it ended up in his face. "That's okay," he said, trying to hand it back.

"Oh, no, dude, you have to drink with us," protested Jerry. "Drink it, it'll kill the germs."

"Drink it, and we'll find you a phone," said Joey.

Darla was behind them, wiping off a table, watching the exchange. She suddenly felt a little sorry for Rock Dude. He really didn't look well, and there was something about him that reminded her of her brother. It was the look in his eyes – the look of someone who had seen too much. It was out of place on someone that young, but then, her brother had been young too. She watched as he tossed down the whiskey, and then sputtered and choked. No, he was definitely not a professional drinker, unlike Joey and Jerry, who had downed their shots like water, and were grinning at him cheerfully.

Charlie felt the whiskey burn its way down, and looked up groggily. "Okay, I drank it, where's the phone?" The dizziness was increasing, and he took a sudden step sideways.

Joey felt his pockets. "Snap," he said. "I left it out in the car. Jerry, where's your phone?"

"Lost it, man, remember?"

Joey draped an arm around Charlie, who was looking back and forth at them stupidly. "C'mon Rock Dude, it's out in the car." He started walking Charlie to the entrance. "You can make your call, and come back in and drink."

Darla grabbed her purse and followed them out, forced to walk slowly because Joey was now largely supporting his friend, who seemed to be out on his feet. As they got outside, the young man sagged suddenly, and Darla stepped up to help brace him.

"Joey," she said, "this guy doesn't need any more to drink."

"Okay," he shrugged, "we'll throw him in the back seat. He can sleep it off."

"I thought you said he was sick."

"He is, honest to God."

"Then he needs a bed, not the back seat of your car. Help me with him; he can crash at my place. I've got a cot he can use."

Benny's was tucked back in between two store fronts, and the space between the buildings served as a parking lot. At the back of one of the stores, right off Benny's parking lot; was a flight of wooden stairs that led to a little two-room efficiency apartment. It wasn't much, but after her divorce it was all Darla could afford, and it had the added advantage that it was next to Benny's, which was necessary, because she didn't have a car.

She and Joey carefully turned Charlie, whose head was now lolling, tilted to the side, and headed toward the stairs. "C'mon Rock Dude," she said. "You're coming home with me."

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End Chapter 11


	12. Chapter 12

**Chapter 12**

Darla sat at her kitchen table, eyeing the thin young man on the cot every time she finished a page in her book. It had been four hours since Joey had helped her get him upstairs. She had dragged the cot out of the closet, and put it in the kitchen, as the only other alternative was her bedroom. They had taken off his shirt and shoes, and trundled him into bed where he collapsed, almost immediately out cold.

Darla had stood staring at the thin scars crossing the young man's chest, forming a large faint X across his torso. They generated a wisp of a memory, but she couldn't clarify it. When she had asked Joey if he knew what they were from, he shrugged. He was fidgeting, and Darla had finally sighed and sent him on his way.

Joey had headed happily back for the bar, and Darla had micro-waved a frozen dinner, and stood eating it, watching the young man sleep. He had something in his jeans pocket; it was big enough to look uncomfortable, and she carefully fished it out. It was a prescription bottle – Lorazepam, she read, and her gaze turned thoughtful. No wonder the shot of whiskey had knocked him out, she thought. She set it on the floor next to the cot.

Her guest had slept soundly for a while, but then his repose had turned fitful. He tossed and turned, and uttered an occasional moan, each one generating a twinge in her heart. At one point, she had laid a hand on his forehead, and realized that he was burning with fever. She hunted for the ibuprofen bottle, and now sat ready with a glass of water and the medicine, waiting for him to wake up enough to take some.

It was around 8:00 p.m., and she was staring again at the thin scars on his chest, wondering for the umpteenth time what had caused them, when he groaned, and struggled to sit up, his eyes opening groggily. Even as unfocused as his eyes were, she could see fear in them, and something darker yet. She swallowed hard; the eyes reminded her painfully of her younger brother. She had lost him just a year before to suicide, a victim of the demons that he had brought home with him after serving in bomb-infested Baghdad.

She stepped forward quickly with the water and the ibuprofen, supporting his shoulders with one strong arm and pulling him into a sitting position. "Here," she said, "take these."

Charlie stared blearily at the stranger in front of him. She had short auburn hair cut in a bob, an attractive medium build, and deep hazel eyes, which were regarding him with sympathy and concern. He fumbled with the pills she handed him and swallowed them without protest, and drank the water without stopping.

She took the glass and filled it at the kitchen sink, then handed it back to him. He downed that too, and lay back, suddenly spent. She thought for a moment he had gone back to sleep, but he forced his eyes open.

"Where am I?" The words came out as a weak croak, and Charlie tried to clear his throat.

"Do you remember coming to the bar with Joey and Jerry?" she asked.

Charlie frowned for a moment; then nodded. "Think so."

"Well, it's right next door. I'm Darla; I work there. You needed a place to sleep; this is my place."

Charlie nodded; his eyes half closed. He wet his dry lips, and spoke with an effort. "Need to call my dad."

Darla reddened. "I don't have a phone," she admitted. "Benny lets me use the bar phone. I can call for you, if you want." At Charlie's nod, she grabbed a scrap of paper and a pencil, and wrote down the number he gave her. "What do you want me to tell him?"

"Tell him, m'okay, will come home soon," Charlie managed. He panted for a moment; she thought he was catching his breath to give her more information, but he closed his eyes again.

"Hey," she said, fumbling for a name. She somehow didn't want to call him Rock Dude to his face, at least not during a serious conversation. What did Joey say his name was? "Charlie? Is it Charlie?" She got no response; he was out again. A thought occurred to her, and she grabbed the prescription bottle. Charles Eppes, she read. She snatched the phone number from the table, and headed for the bar.

Downstairs, Benny's was hopping. The evening help had come in and was working the bar, and Benny was on the phone himself, in an animated conversation. Darla watched him, waiting impatiently; and then spied a cell phone on one of the booth tables. A man named Mike, a trucker who came in periodically, turned and pulled a cigarette out of the pack next to the cell phone.

Darla yelled over the din of the jukebox. "Mike, can I use your phone for a minute?" Mike was involved in a conversation of his own, deep in some kind of discussion with the biker in front of him, and he nodded and waved at her impatiently, not bothering to turn.

She grabbed the phone and headed to the corner, as far away from the din as possible, dialing the number. She'd better tell his dad he wasn't feeling well, she thought. The phone rang a few times and went to voice mail.

"Hi," she said loudly, trying to speak over the din. "This is a friend of Charlie's. He's not feeling well right now and can't come to the phone, but he wanted me to give you a message. He says to let you know he's okay and will be coming home soon." The phone beeped at her a few times during the message, and she could hear static on the line, but the call seemed like it went through. She went back and laid the phone on the table. "Thanks, Mike," she yelled, but he was still talking, and ignored her. She shrugged, and headed back upstairs.

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Don and Alan stepped into the house, each carrying a laundry basket, on their way upstairs. They had just spent a somber fifteen minutes folding clothes, Alan brooding, and Don grim. Laundry was the last thing Don wanted to do at the moment, but he felt like he should pitch in and help his father. God knows, he was next to useless when it came to finding his brother. The message light was flashing on the phone, and Alan propped the laundry basket on his hip to listen to it.

It was hard to hear the woman's voice to begin with, and the connection was horrible– the message was missing entirely in places. All they heard was snippets between the static - "_of Charlie's_," "_not feeling well_," and "_me to give you a_" were all that came through before the message cut out entirely. It was enough, however, to send Alan's laundry basket tumbling forgotten to the floor.

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Darla was getting ready to go to bed herself at around midnight, when her guest suddenly shot up in the cot, his eyes wild, and his chest heaving. For the first time, she felt uneasy. She didn't know this man really; and he was acting strangely. She paused, looking at him from the other room, and saw him raise a trembling hand to his face, and then feel for the pocket of his jeans with his other hand. His head jerked up, and he looked down at the jeans bagging around his waist, in a panic.

She stepped forward, into the doorway. "They're on the floor, next to the cot."

He looked up at her, startled, and then down at the bottle, and she saw relief flood his face.

"Need some more water?"

He had picked up the pill bottle, and was opening it with shaking hands. "Yes, thanks." He looked up a little guiltily. "I can get it."

"No, you stay right there." She filled the glass and handed it to him, watching him down three of the pills. He closed his eyes, and something, a mixture of relief and bliss, crossed his face, and then it was gone. She knew what the pills were. Her brother had been on them, for a while. She didn't remember him taking three at once.

He looked at her, trying to collect his thoughts. "Did you call my dad?"

"He wasn't there, but I left a message. I told him you were okay, and would be home soon – was that right?"

Charlie nodded. "Thanks," he said, and he looked down, thinking. He had been half-hoping she would say that his father was on his way to get him, but maybe it was better this way. He could take his time, be sure he was ready to go back. At least his father wouldn't be worrying about him.

"Do you need something to eat?"

He looked up at her, and she caught her breath. It was the first time she had seen his eyes fully open up close. They were beautiful eyes, she thought, big, dark; intelligent. And at the moment, filled with guilt. She suddenly wished she was ten years younger.

"No," he said, "I've put you out enough already. I should go, find a hotel or something."

As he spoke, he swung his feet over the side of the cot, trying to get up, but a wave of dizziness hit him, and he sat swaying instead, one hand touching his forehead.

"No, you're not going anywhere," said Darla. "You're obviously still sick."

"I feel better," protested Charlie. He did, just a little.

"That's the ibuprofen talking," Darla replied. "When it wears off, the fever will be back. Trust me; this is not a big deal. Do you know how many people I've put up on that cot?" She grinned and headed for the stove. "I could tell you some stories."

While she made an omelet and toast, she did, as her guest sat on the cot and listened, his legs crossed. She was rewarded with a few smiles, which briefly replaced the dark look in his eyes, and they carried on an easy conversation, like old friends.

After four days worth of trail bars and reconstituted mystery meals, and then nothing for more than a day, the simple food tasted heavenly, and Charlie handed her his empty plate, gratefully. "Thanks, that was great." He eyed her, speculatively. She obviously didn't have money, but she was willing to put up strangers in her kitchen and feed them. "I should give you some money," he said, "to pay for room and board."

"Nonsense," she said, rinsing his plate off in the sink. "It's just something I like to do. Besides, you remind me of someone." She turned and caught his questioning look. "My brother."

"He doesn't live around here, I take it."

A shadow passed over her face. "He's gone." She paused, trying to get the words out. "He committed suicide about a year ago." She caught the expression on the young man's face; he looked stunned; the haunted look flooded his eyes, and he glanced away. The little kitchen was suddenly silent; the only noise was the faint booming of Benny's jukebox.

"I miss him," she said softly. "I'm still mad at him. It's really a selfish thing to do, when you think about it."

'_Selfish.' _The word reverberated in Charlie's mind. "I'm sorry."

"It's okay," she said. The young man looked down at his hands, and she studied him. The silence stretched again, and she finally broke it, speaking softly. "What happened to you?"

Charlie looked up, a little startled. Was his anxiety that obvious? He suddenly realized that she meant the scars on his chest. "It's a long story," he said quietly, looking back down at his hands.

He fell silent, and she thought for a moment that he wasn't going to say anything more. '_Not my business,'_ she thought, mentally kicking herself for being too nosy. She was surprised when he suddenly started talking again, and sank quietly into a chair to listen.

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"Got it," said Megan, as the email appeared on the screen. She clicked on it and opened the attached file, while Don looked over her shoulder.

He and his father had listened to the cryptic phone message several times the night before, trying to make sense of it, and to see if they could figure out from the background noise where it was. Don had called the phone company after that, trying to convince them to release the phone record for the call, but with no luck. The phone was in Charlie's name, and they refused to release records without a warrant, or a signed request by the person the phone was registered to.

That morning, Don had shown up in the chambers of a judge he knew. The judge was a little reluctant to issue a warrant without evidence of a crime, but after a little arm twisting, went ahead and granted it, conceding to the fact that the record actually belonged to the requester's brother, who happened to be FBI. Don had sent it on to the phone company, and now, at around 9:00 a.m., they had finally gotten the information they wanted.

"Here it is," said Megan. "A little after 8:00 p.m. It's a cell phone, registered to Airstream Trucking."

Don jotted the number down hurriedly, and stepped over to his phone, while his agents listened. He dialed and paused for a moment.

"_Zwolinksy."_

Don nodded at his team, and flipped on the speaker. "Mr. Zwolinksy, this Agent Eppes from the FBI. We're trying to trace a call that was made on your phone last night -,'

The voice broke in, filled with derision. "_Who is this? Billy, is that you?"_

Don set his jaw angrily. "Mr. Zwolinksy, this _is_ the FBI, Agent Don Eppes -,"

"_Cut me a break,"_ the voice said, filled with derision. _"Look, whoever you are, punk, this is a company phone. I'm on the road, and I don't need no prank phone calls right now. Now piss off." _

The phone went dead, and Don stared at it a minute with his mouth open. His eyes flashing, he punched the number again angrily. The phone rang twice, and then went immediately to voice mail – it had been shut off.

'_Uh, oh,'_ thought Colby. _'I wouldn't want to be that guy when Don catches up to him."_

Don turned to Megan, his voice tight with barely contained anger. "Get me Airstream Trucking on the phone."

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It was about 9:00 in the morning, and Darla eyed her sleeping guest, trying to get her mind around the story he had told her last night. Something between them had clicked, not on a romantic level, but as friends, and they talked for two hours, her about her brother, and him about his unbelievable ordeal – his experience with the serial killer, and his journey of the past few days. He had told her about his struggle with the anxiety and panic attacks, and even his thoughts of suicide. Although it seemed painful for him, she suspected it was cathartic to get it off his chest – the story seemed to spill out of him, in spite of himself.

She suspected that he had finally gotten to a point where he needed to talk; and after spending four days on the trail with no one to talk to; she was a convenient person to spill to. No ties, not someone he would see again after this. Maybe he thought she could relate because of her brother. Whatever the reason, she was glad to listen, to be there if it helped him. After her brother's suicide, she knew the importance of that – she wondered sadly if someone had been there to listen to her brother in his darkest hour, if it might have made a difference.

Charlie had leaned back on the pillow at around 1:30 in the morning, exhausted, but still talking, and at around two, he finally drifted off, and she crept into bed, her head full of the horrors he had told her. She suspected he had told her everything, or at least almost everything; he didn't talk about the pills he was taking. He didn't need to for her to know there were issues there, however; she had spent enough time among the partiers to recognize a problem when she saw it.

The fever must have come back during the night; he was now tossing and turning, his face flushed. She quietly filled a glass of water, and when she turned, his eyes were open, just halfway, glazed and unfocused, trained on the ceiling.

"Good morning," she said, and he turned bleary eyes on her, too out of it to talk. She handed him two more ibuprofen, and helped him up so he could swallow them, and he lay back down. He reached his arm down and fumbled for his pill bottle next to the cot, and opening it, tossed down three of the tiny white pills. He closed his eyes before he even had the lid on, and as soon as it was closed he released it, and let it tumble next to him on the cot.

She eyed him with concern. If his fever didn't break by this afternoon, she was going to get hold of Joey and talk him into taking the young man to the clinic.

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Zwolinksy finally called back around noon. At Don's request, the trucking company had tried to contact him also, and had left a message that he should call back. The trucker didn't turn his phone back on until he stopped for lunch, and when he got the messages, he suddenly wasn't hungry. His mouth dry, he dialed, wondering how badly he had pissed the agent off.

Don pounced on the phone when it rang. "Eppes," he barked.

'_Agent Eppes? This is Mike Zwolinsky. I'm really sorry sir, I thought it was one of the idiots from the bar last night-,'_

"Can it," snapped Don. He turned on the speaker, and the other agents gather around to listen in. "Did you let anyone use your phone last night – a woman?"

There was a pause on the other end. "_I don't remember – wait, yeah, I think so, but I can't remember where it was._"

"What city were you in?"

"_Oh - Santa Barbara. I was at three different places last night, see, ran into a lot of people - I think I was at the Beach House when she asked_."

"Do you remember seeing a man there, a little over thirty, about five-seven, dark curly hair?"

"_No, sir, no one like that. Can I ask what this relates to?"_

"No, you can't," Don snapped. "Where is the Beach House?"

"_It's down off of East Beach. There's a bunch of little bars there, Beach House, Benny's, Pacific Rim, - I kind of make the rounds when I stop in Santa Barbara."_

Don jotted down the names. "And who did you lend the phone to?"

"_You know, I'll be damned if I can remember. I just remember I was talking to someone, and a girl asked to use the phone-,"_

"You let anyone use your company phone?"

"_I pay for my own phone time off hours." _Zwolinsky sounded affronted._ "I know she was someone I recognized, but I just can't think who it was right now."_

"Well think harder. If you remember, call me back at this number. It's my cell phone." Don rattled off the number.

"_Okay, man, and I'm really sorry about this morning."_

"Yeah, you oughta be. And lay off the booze when you're driving the next day." Don hung up, not waiting to hear the stammered response. The idiot had cost him three hours. He grabbed his jacket, and turned to his team. "You guys hold down the fort. I'm going to take some personal time; head up to Santa Barbara."

"You want someone to come with?" asked Megan.

"No, that's okay," said Don, already on his way out. "I've got it."

Moments later, he was on the highway, headed north, his gut clenched with a mixture of anticipation and apprehension. What in the hell was Charlie doing in Santa Barbara?

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End Chapter 12


	13. Chapter 13

_East Beach in Santa Barbara is a real place. All of the bars mentioned in the story are not, however._

**Chapter 13**

Charlie woke again at around 11:00 a.m. Either the ibuprofen was working or the fever was receding on its own; he was feeling quite a bit better. Darla was bustling around the kitchen, and he sat up and cleared his throat a bit awkwardly. "Morning," he said.

She turned and grinned at him. "It's almost lunchtime," she said. "I've got to go down to the bar in a bit; I'm fixing you a sandwich." She eyed him. "You look better."

"I feel better," he admitted. "I – uh- I have another prescription I need to take. Is my pack here?"

'_More pills,'_ she thought. "It's over there, in the corner." She watched him twist around to look at it; then rise slowly from the cot. He was moving stiffly, but steadily enough. Maybe he wouldn't need the clinic after all. She put the sandwich on the kitchen table, and poured a glass of iced tea. "Here you go. You're welcome to take a shower later, if you're up for it. I'll see you later. I get off at seven tonight."

"What day is it?" Charlie called after her, his hands in his pack, as she headed out the door.

"Friday," she flung back over her shoulder.

The door slammed and he sat down at the table and, after tossing down his pills, bit into his sandwich, thoughtfully. He was ready, he thought. The dreams were getting better; Mansour was still in them, but by this time he was a silent bystander, inactive, just watching. When Charlie first had the fever, the dreams had grown violent again, but last night, at least until the fever kicked in again, Mansour had simply been a part of the background; his presence always felt, but not actively involved. It was almost as if he was waiting, watching for an opportunity that never came. The fact that he was still dreaming about Mansour was a concern, but considering how bad the dreams were before, Charlie estimated that he had made some progress.

His talk last night with Darla had helped. He wasn't even sure why he had confided in her – it must have been the rapport he felt; somehow he knew she would understand. She was a good listener, and talking to her about everything seemed to begin to clarify things in his mind.

He was still anxious, but the pills helped with that. He would have to stay out of the garage until he had a little more control over his thoughts, but after a week away, he ought to be able to do that. Maybe he would head up to campus and clean out his office.

Yes, he was definitely ready to go home. So, today was Friday. Don would be off tomorrow. Maybe he would call him later, and see if he would come up and get him in the morning - or his dad, if Don couldn't. If worst came to worst, he would take the bus again.

He sat for a moment, trying to take in the fact that he had been gone a whole week, and thought over the events that had brought him here. The night in the canyon rose in his mind and he shuddered. He had been so close to ending it there; and then again on the trail. The demons still really weren't very far away; the thoughts still lurked, but he was gaining the upper hand. He was going to make it. He rose, and headed for the shower.

An hour later, he was clean, shaven and dressed in shorts and a T-shirt. He had folded the cot and set it against the wall, unsure of where to put it. He left some cash on the counter- he wouldn't impose on Darla tonight – he would find a hotel. It was a beautiful day outside, and he suddenly felt confined. Maybe he would head out, sit in the sunshine for a while. Later, he would come back up to Benny's, get something to eat and thank Darla before he went to get a hotel room. His brother would be home from work by then; he could call him from the hotel.

He shouldered his pack, and stepped out, making his way down the wooden steps. His legs were still a little shaky, and he took his time. As he was about to hit the last step he heard a loud cheerful voice.

"Rock Dude!"

He looked up as Jerry approached; a surfboard under his arm. "Hey, Jerry."

"Hey man, I'm headed to the beach. Joey's there. Come on over and hang with us."

Jerry grinned stupidly, and Charlie couldn't suppress a smile. "Where is it?"

"Just right across the road, man."

"Okay, I'll come and sit for a while." He_ had_ been planning on getting fresh air, Charlie thought, and he couldn't remember the last time he had been to a beach. Jerry took off in an easy lope, and Charlie fell in beside him. His legs were still a little wobbly, he was still weak, and he was dragging the pack with him. By the time they got across the road, and then past a grassy area and a walkway and onto the beach, he was breathing a bit heavily, and he sank gratefully onto the sand.

There was a bar not too far away, just the other side of the walk, and music drifted out into the balmy air. The sun was warm, and as he watched Joey and Jerry out on their surf boards, he began to feel sleepy. He stripped off his shoes and his T-shirt and laid it behind him to keep his head off the sand, and lay down. Before he knew it, he had drifted off to dreams of Mansour, standing in the surf, staring at him with baleful eyes.

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Don made it to the Beach House in a little less than two hours. He stepped inside, approached the man stationed behind the bar, and flashed his badge. The bartender, a big young man with a florid face, went from bored to respectful in an instant.

Don handed him a picture of Charlie. "Have you seen him around?"

The bartender shook his head. "No. When do you think he was here?"

"I'm not sure, maybe last night."

The bartender gestured toward a group at a nearby table. "I wasn't here, but I bet they were." He got their attention. "Hey, you guys, did you see this guy in here last night?" Don stepped over to them, and handed them the picture.

Three of them shook their heads, but one of him turned to the man next to him. "Hey, he was at Benny's – he was Joey and Jerry's friend. You remember."

The other man looked at the picture. "Yeah, that's Rock Dude."

Don gave them an incredulous look. _'Rock Dude?'_ They couldn't be talking about Charlie. "Are you sure that's him?"

"Yeah, pretty sure. He was hanging with Joey and Jerry."

Don frowned. "Who are Joey and Jerry?"

"Couple of beach bums, surfers. They hang out at Benny's, maybe a mile up the street from here." One them smirked at the other. "I hear the guy shacked up at Darla's last night."

Don frowned. This definitely did not sound like Charlie. He was beginning to think he had a case of mistaken identity, but there was no way to know for sure without following the leads. "Who is Darla?"

"Waitress at Benny's." Don considered his options. Joey and Jerry sounded like the most likely bet.

"Joey and Jerry - do you know their last names?"

They looked at each other, and shook their heads. "No, but you can't miss 'em. They both have long blond hair – they aren't related, but they look like twins."

Don nodded and thanked them almost absently, his thoughts spinning as he headed out of the bar. A little over a mile and few minutes later, he pulled his SUV into Benny's lot.

The bar was relatively quiet yet. There was no sign of the two surfers. Don glanced at a forty-ish waitress with short auburn hair as she headed toward the back room, and then spied the bartender, a stocky barrel of a man wiping the counter. He approached him and showed his badge, and the man's eyes got round.

Don showed him Charlie's picture. "Did you see this man in your bar last night?"

"Yeah," said Benny. "He came in with Joey and Jerry. Didn't stay long – looked like he'd already been drinking. I think he had one shot, and shortly after that, I saw Joey helping him out."

Don realized his mouth was hanging open, and he closed it. This could not be Charlie they were talking about. No way. "Do you know where they went?"

"No – but not far – Joey came back in by himself a few minutes later. Is this guy in some kind of trouble?"

"No," said Don shortly. "He's my brother, Charlie; I've been trying to find him all week."

'_Every family has a black sheep,'_ thought Benny.

"Do you have a waitress here named Darla?"

"Yeah, she's here now." Benny craned his non-existent neck. "She must be in the back room."

Don got a mental image of the auburn haired waitress, and had a hard time getting the next words out. "Someone said that Charlie stayed with her last night."

Benny made a face. "I doubt that, and if he did, he isn't with her now. I'd say your best bet is to head across the street to East Beach – Joey and Jerry hang out there nearly every day. In fact, I saw Joey's car in the lot when I came in – he's gotta be there, at least."

Don thanked him and headed back through the little bar, glancing around for the waitress. She was nowhere in sight, and he decided to try the beach. If he struck out there, he would come back. He pushed out the door and headed through the parking lot.

Darla came out of the back room, carrying a load of clean glasses. She looked around for the man that had come in, curious. "Where'd that guy go?" she asked Benny, as she started stacking glasses.

"He was looking for that guy that Joey and Jerry brought in last night," said Benny. "Get this – he's FBI. Agent Eppes."

"FBI!" Darla exclaimed, as a quick shock ran through her.

"Yeah, says the guy is his brother – he's been looking for him all week. I sent him across to the beach."

'_Eppes,'_ she thought. That was the last name all right. "Benny, can I have a couple of minutes?" she asked, stripping off her apron. "I need to catch him. His brother's up at my place. He wasn't feeling good last night; I let him sleep on the cot."

Benny frowned at her. "Darla, you shouldn't do that – you don't know what kind of people you might be dealing with."

"Yeah, yeah," Darla waved him off as she dashed through the bar. "He's a nice guy; he just needed a little help." She flung the last words over her shoulder as she pushed out of the door.

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Don eyed the beach. There were two blond guys playing football that matched the description of Joey and Jerry, but what caught his eye was the head of dark curly hair that belonged to what looked like a skinny shirtless kid, sitting not too far away from them. The football careened his way; he shot an arm out to fend it off, and it fell into the sand next to him."

One of the blond guys yelled, "Hey Rock Dude, toss us the ball!"

Don had started toward him already. The dark haired young man picked up the ball, and as he lobbed it awkwardly back, Don caught a glimpse of Charlie's profile. He stopped short for a moment, feeling as if he'd been struck. He had been looking for his brother all week; his father had been worried sick, and Charlie was on some damned vacation? He started back toward him, his jaw set, anger building with every step.

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Charlie awoke with a start, and sat up shaking, trying to get his bearings. He looked in a bit of panic at the water; in his dream, Mansour had been walking up toward him out of the surf. He could feel tremors starting; he was past due for his pills. He reached for his pack, and caught a glimpse of Joey and Jerry a short distance away tossing a football. He found his bottle and shook pills into his hand; six of them fell out, and he separated three of them, and tossed them into his mouth just as two other things happened.

The football had veered off course; Charlie put up a hand to stop it, the remaining three pills still clenched in his fist. It hit his hand and fell into the sand.

Joey yelled, "Hey Rock Dude, toss us the ball!"

Charlie picked it up with his free hand and awkwardly tried to lob it from his sitting position. It fell short, and Joey ran forward to retrieve it. Charlie reached for the pill bottle to put back the extra pills, and heard his brother's voice. "Charlie."

He twisted his torso and whipped his head around, in shock, almost simultaneously reaching for his T-shirt. Somehow, he felt he needed to hide the pills. He dropped the T-shirt on the bottle, and scrambled to his feet, the three extra pills still clenched in one hand, a grin starting across his face. "Donnie."

His brother's face was unreadable. Joey and Jerry ran up panting, like a pair of curious golden retrievers. Charlie introduced them, feeling suddenly awkward. "Don, this is Joey and Jerry. Guys, this is my brother, Don."

Don eyed them with a look of loathing. They reeked of cannabis, their eyes were blood-shot, and their vacuous grins did nothing to convince him of the presence of intelligence. He put on a nasty smile. "Don Eppes, FBI." Their faces dropped, and he took in the sight with grim satisfaction.

"Whoa," said Jerry. They backed away a few steps, as Charlie looked back and forth from them to his brother, disconcerted.

"Well, nice to meet you," said Joey lamely. He sent a suspicious look toward Charlie. "Later, dude." They turned and headed off at a trot, Jerry casting a backwards glance over his shoulder.

Charlie looked back at Don in dismay. "What was that about?"

"What was that about!" exploded Don, fury in his face. He flung a sweeping arm over the beach. "What is this about?"

Charlie involuntarily took at step backward, paling at his brother's expression. "What do you mean?"

"I mean," growled Don through a clenched jaw, his voice rising with every word, "What in the hell do you think you're doing? Dad's been worried sick about you, my team has been beating the bushes looking for you all week, and you're up here on some damned vacation, hanging out with a couple of potheads, and shacking up with some two-bit waitress from a sleazy bar!"

Charlie felt the breath leave him, and he stammered, "It's not like that – I left a note-,"

"Not like what?" Don was yelling now. "Not like you could have given your dad a damn phone call?" He turned; anger and disgust on his face, and shot the next words over his shoulder. "Grab your things, we're going."

Charlie stood, shaking with hurt and rising anger of his own. "Forget it," he shouted back. "I made it here on my own; I'll make it back on my own!" Overwhelmed with anger and frustration, he turned and headed unsteadily toward the water, away from the curious onlookers, his fists and jaw clenched; his shoulders tight.

"Charlie!" yelled Don, after him; then turned in annoyance and surprise as his last name was spoken, looking for the owner of the voice behind him. The waitress from the bar was standing there, glaring at him, her eyes blazing with fury.

"We need to talk," she snapped.

Don closed his eyes briefly; fighting to control his anger, then opened them and fixed her with an icy glare. "I don't have time for this right now."

"You'd better make time," she said tightly. "You can go down there and talk to him in a minute, but first you'd better hear what I have to say."

Don glanced at his brother; Charlie had reached the water and had plunked down in the sand at the edge of it, his shoulders hunched. He turned back and looked at her, scowling. "Make it quick."

She jerked her head toward some tables and chairs that were set out in the open air near the bar, and stalked toward them. Don followed her and sat; skepticism on his face.

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Charlie sat and looked at the surf, shaking with frustration, hurt and anger. After everything he'd gone through this week, he was actually beginning to regain a little confidence in himself, maybe even feel that he had accomplished something, that he had gone through such an ordeal and survived, and maybe, just maybe, had done something his brother would be proud of. Instead his brother had assumed the worst, without even giving him a chance to explain. His emotional and mental state was fragile to begin with at the moment, and the feelings that surged through him clouded his judgment.

At least that's what he told himself, later, when the doubts set in. He would question over and over again what he did next. Did he truly forget, in the middle of that swirl of emotion, that he had taken three pills already? Or in his subconscious, did something darker take over, and he took the second three pills on purpose, so bent on finding relief that he didn't care if he took too many? Whatever the reason, without being really conscious that he did so, he found himself angrily, almost absently tossing down the three pills that he still had clenched in his hand.

Seconds later, he could feel a surge, a wave through his system; that almost took his breath away. He would recall later, guiltily, how good it felt.

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Darla was shaking with anger, and she fixed her eyes on Don. "First of all, let me introduce myself. I'm Darla, the two bit waitress from the sleazy little bar." To his credit, the man in front of her shifted uncomfortably in his seat. She continued, not giving him a chance to apologize, speaking with icy sarcasm. "Secondly, Charlie only got here yesterday. The two _potheads,_" she spat out the word sarcastically, "found him wandering out on Highway 33, with no food and water, nearly delirious with a fever. They were kind enough to pick him up and bring him here."

Don frowned, and he felt a sinking sensation. He suddenly didn't have a good feeling about this conversation. "Highway 33?"

"North of Ojai." She nodded as she caught the stunned comprehension in his eyes. "He was in Los Padres for most of the last week."

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The water swirled and dipped in front of him, and Charlie looked down at the edge of it, away from the horizon, fighting dizziness. He felt a strange floating sensation. Two legs suddenly appeared in front of him, standing in the water, and he looked up into Mansour's eyes.

Charlie stood to face him. "Go away," he said between clenched teeth.

"Make me," hissed Mansour, and he stepped backwards into the waves. Charlie felt suddenly fearless, the anger from his argument with his brother fueling his steps; and he moved forward. The vision wavered in front of him; then became clear again. Charlie rubbed his eyes, staggering.

Mansour reappeared, smiling, slowly retreating; taunting him. "You wanted to get rid of me, but you failed. You're a failure."

"Shut up," whispered Charlie, and he stepped forward unsteadily into the surf.

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Don sent an uncertain glance toward Charlie. He could see his brother standing knee deep in the surf, wading, trying to keep his footing as the waves broke on his legs. He looked back at Darla, who continued to speak with barely concealed anger.

"He told me everything last night. He went back to try to deal with it all. You almost didn't get the chance to talk to him today," she said, trying to keep her voice even. "The night he spent in the canyon – he came this close to ending it."

Don turned white and gripped the edge of the table. "What?" He couldn't generate more than a whisper. His stomach dropped, and he stared at her in horror.

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Charlie rubbed his eyes again. He was nearly chest deep in water, the horizon dipping and dancing. He could see Mansour's face in the waves ahead, but he could no longer hear him, there was a roaring in his ears. He stepped forward. He was winning. He would push him until he was gone.

Now shoulder deep, the waves were making him lose his footing. His vision was dimming, and the roaring was louder. He leaned forward, into the waves. He could see Mansour's face leering, just ahead, but he suddenly no longer cared. He was so tired. It was time to sleep – sleep…

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Tears stung Darla's eyes as the memory of her brother rose in the back of her mind. She couldn't take this conversation anymore. Rising to her feet, she nearly choked on sobs. "He spent the week fighting with everything he had, trying to claw his way back out. He was trying to heal himself before he saw you again." She shook her head, tears now streaming down her face. "He did this for you. I can't for the life of me figure out why – I think you're an asshole."

She turned and stumbled away, and Don sat stunned, immobilized, sickened with guilt. "Oh my God," he whispered, and turned towards his brother, just in time to see the dark head disappear into the waves.

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End Chapter 13


	14. Chapter 14

**Chapter 14**

Don stood slowly, scanning the spot where he had last seen Charlie's head. His brother was a decent swimmer; surely he would pop back up any minute now. He searched the spot, his eyes riveted, and a slow twist of fear began inside him. He began to feel his way around the table, not daring to take his eyes off the spot where he had last seen Charlie. He could not lose that spot. A surfer lying prone on a red surfboard started to paddle his way over to where Charlie was, and that was when the shock of panic hit him.

Now past the table; he began a sprint down the beach, his legs flying, driven by sheer fear. The brace pulled at his leg as he ran, but he ignored it, focused on that spot in the water. At one point he screamed his brother's name without even realizing it; his breath coming in gasps from the effort. It was one of those moments that seemed to happen in slow motion; he was intensely aware of the small figures of the surfers much further out, riding the bigger waves; of the closer surfer on the red board, hovering on the surface of the water, peering into it, of the older woman with a small dog, standing transfixed, watching.

Ripping off his shoes, he dashed madly into the water and plunged into the surf; which seemed to push back at him like a live thing. He dove and began swimming frantically, heading toward a spot just left of the surfer. "Do you see him?" he yelled, the words ragged, gasping.

The surfer called back. "No. I think he went under right here. He just sank."

Don had made it nearly to the spot, and he let his feet touch bottom, trying to get his bearings before he dove under. The water was dark green, made murky by the action of the waves; it was impossible to see the bottom, or even close to it. He was just about to dive, when his foot touched something. He felt the softness of skin and clothing, the solidness of a body, and taking a huge gasp of air, he went under.

The action of the water was pushing the body back and forth, and when he first reached for it, it wasn't there. Feeling frantically in front of him, kicking his feet, he made contact again and grabbed hold, pulling the limp form up with him. He surfaced; his chest heaving, and pushed his brother's lifeless face out of the water.

The surfer reached out his hands. "Get him up on the board!" Aided by Don's pushes, they managed to prop Charlie's upper body on the surfboard. His eyes were closed, his curls clung to his face, and water ran in rivulets from his nose and mouth.

Don grabbed the waistband of Charlie's shorts to keep him positioned on the board and the surfer began paddling toward shore, Don side-stroking, scissor-kicking beside. As soon as Don could touch bottom, the surfer instructed him to push the board, and he began compressions on Charlie's chest. Charlie's face was turned toward Don, pale and immobile, and Don pleaded with him silently to breath, watching the dribbles of water coming from his brother's mouth with icy fear.

As they got to a point where it was waist deep, Don could stand it no longer. He stood and grabbed Charlie around the waist and pulled inward, in a panic-driven version of the Heimlich maneuver. Water spurted from Charlie's mouth, and Don pulled in again, all the while half-walking, half-dragging his brother toward the shallower water. The surfer had ditched his board in the sand and splashed back in to help. He grabbed Charlie's feet, and together they carried his limp body onto the sand.

The old woman with the dog was there, as was Darla; she had heard Don call out his brother's name as he ran down the beach, and she had turned and run after him. The older woman was watching intently, and as they made the beach, she directed calmly. "Bend him over, and give him some sharp blows to the back."

Don could hardly breathe, much less think coherently, but he did as he was told, wincing as the palm of his hand hit his brother's thin back again, and again,. The thought suddenly occurred to him that his brother was dead; that he should be holding him, not beating him, and the horror of it was so strong he almost stopped, but as yet more water dribbled out of Charlie's mouth, his resolve strengthened, and he continued to do as the woman told him.

His left hand was under his brother's abdomen, holding him, and suddenly he heard an intake of air; wet and gurgling.

"Give him another compression," instructed the woman.

Don put his arms around Charlie and squeezed, and it generated a wet-sounding, gurgling wheeze, and a bit more water. One more squeeze generated only a wheeze, and no water, and the woman nodded. "Get him on his back, and start mouth to mouth. Do either of you know how to do it?"

They both nodded, but the surfer spoke first. "I just got recertified."

Don looked at him. "You go," he said, his insides crawling with impatience. He knew mouth to mouth, but it had been awhile since he had had to do it, and months since his recertification. His gut instinct was to take care of his brother himself, but he knew rationally that the better trained person needed to perform it. It was all he could do, however, to stay calm, to remain rational, while he watched the surfer breathe into Charlie's mouth, and perform chest compressions. It seemed an eternity, but it was only a matter of seconds before Charlie's chest suddenly heaved. An odd sputtering cough burst from his lungs, and he began to breathe.

"Two minutes and fourteen seconds," announced the woman, looking at her watch. She caught Don's dumbfounded look. "I am a retired nurse, and long before that a retired lifeguard. I started timing a second or two after he went under. If you get them breathing again in less than four minutes, you minimize the chance of brain damage."

A siren sounded in the distance. "I called 911," she said. "Does anyone know who this young man is?"

Don sagged to the ground, and somehow found his voice. "He's my brother." The surfer leaned back on his heels, and as Don watched his brother's chest rising and falling, he felt a surge of emotion rise in him. He choked back tears with an effort. "Thank you," he murmured, his eyes catching the surfer's; then finding the older woman's.

She nodded, her keen eyes holding his. "I'll just wait until they come. They always want to talk to the person that phoned it in."

Don looked down at Charlie's face, searching for signs of consciousness, but finding none. He grabbed his brother's slack jaw in his hand, then released it and gave him a light slap on the cheek. "Charlie." Nothing. He looked back up at the older woman, concern in his face. "Shouldn't he be coming around?"

Her eyes narrowed as they ran over Charlie's face. "Ordinarily, yes, although it looked as though he passed out before he even went under. It was had to tell, because of the wave action, but he looked very unsteady on his feet." Her eyes met Don's. "Was he, ah, under the influence of something?"

He frowned, about to deny, but Darla spoke up. "He's taking medication. He may have had a reaction." Her eyes met Don's meaningfully.

Don stared back at her. '_What is she trying to tell me?' _he wondered. He looked down at Charlie again, and his heart, which had begun to slow, began to hammer in his ribs again.

The older woman had caught Darla's glance but said nothing. That was an issue for the EMT's and the hospital. It wouldn't be the first time a young person had succumbed to a substance, drugs or alcohol, on the beach. This one had been lucky, she thought. She stood there stolidly, watching, as the EMT's ran down the beach.

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Don sat hunched in the waiting room chair. He had grabbed his shoes and had run beside his brother's gurney up the beach to the ambulance, only to be told by the emergency technicians in no uncertain terms that there was no room for him; that he would have to follow them to the hospital. He stood staring, stunned, for a moment, catching one last glimpse of Charlie's face as the doors closed, then shoved his sand-covered feet into his shoes, and headed for the SUV. As he reached the vehicle, he heard a voice behind him and turned. Darla was running after him, panting; holding Charlie's pack. He jumped into the SUV and started it; she piled in after him, and they pulled out of Benny's parking lot with a screech of tires.

Now they sat side by side in the waiting room. Darla glanced sideways at the man beside her. Don had his elbows on his knees, and his face was buried in his hands. She took in the muscular chest and biceps next to her, outlined under the wet shirt, and felt suddenly rueful. This one was closer to her age. She probably shouldn't have called him an asshole. She watched as he lifted his head from his hands, agony apparent in his face, and she winced. She definitely shouldn't have called him an asshole. She felt her heart sink as she looked at him and took in his apparent despair. '_You really called that one wrong,'_ she told herself.

She had pulled Charlie's pill bottles from the pack before they came in, knowing that the doctors would probably want them, and she set them softly on the small table between them. She eyed Don for a moment, then swallowed hard, and spoke. "When you talk to him, you should ask him about the pills," she said gently. "I think he's taking a few too many."

Don looked at her, trying to scowl, but it was tempered by misery. "How do you know?"

"My brother was on them. Maybe Charlie's supposed to be taking that many, I don't know, but it looked like a lot more than my brother was taking."

Don frowned, but he said nothing. Silence stretched, and then he spoke. "What's your brother taking them for?"

"Was," she corrected softly. "He's dead." She fell silent, and Don had looked away, not wanting to pry, but not before she saw the question in his eyes. "Suicide,' she finally said. "Post traumatic stress from serving in Baghdad." She saw him turn pale and look away, new horror in his eyes, and she looked at him with a plea in hers. "I guess that's why I got so upset, when you yelled at your brother. He kind of hit a nerve, for me. I'm sorry."

He glanced back at her, and then away, struggling to control the pain in his face. "No, that's okay. I deserved it. I didn't even bother trying to find out what was going on first. I just went from appearances, and assumed things."

"I imagine that's what FBI agents do," she said with a soft smile of understanding. "Read the situation and roll with it."

He glanced at her with new respect. Pretty perceptive, for a waitress from a sleazy little bar. "Yeah. It just doesn't always work that well with my brother. He's a little … complex." He looked at her with sudden intensity, a plea in his eyes. "I need you tell me everything – everything he told you; everything you noticed – like the medicine."

She paused for just a moment. Charlie had told her things in confidence; things that she hadn't intended to repeat. Of course, she thought, this was his brother, and she had already told him enough to ruin any chance of keeping most of Charlie's story confidential. '_It's in Charlie's best interest,' _she told herself firmly. _'Someone should understand what he's going through.' _She took at deep breath. "Okay, let me start from the beginning."

A half hour later, she had finished talking, and silence descended. She had faced forward while she talked; it seemed easier that way for both of them, but now she stole a sideways glance. Don was staring straight ahead, for all appearances lost in thought, but his jaw and his shoulders were tight with suppressed emotion. There was a movement in the entrance, and a doctor stepped into the waiting room, and queried the group. "Anyone here for Eppes?"

Don grabbed the pill bottles and was up like a shot and at the doctor's side, who eyed his wet clothing, but didn't remark. "Are those his prescriptions?" he asked, holding out his hand, and Don nodded, handing them over. "Come this way." Don glanced back at Darla as they turned, and she held his eyes, conveying unspoken support.

The doctor led Don into a small office and they sat, Don on the edge of his chair, his hands clasped at his knees. He couldn't wait for formalities. "How is he?"

"He'll be fine," said the doctor, extending his hand. "I'm Dr. Jacobs, ER attending."

Don took it, trying to appear apologetic at skipping over the introductions, but impatience overwhelmed him. "Don Eppes. Charlie's my brother. He's going to be okay? What happened?"

The doctor nodded. "He apparently passed out due to an overdose of Lorazepam. The tox screen showed exaggerated levels of the drug in his system; far more than what is indicated on this prescription bottle. I understand he was in the water when it happened."

The blood drained from Don's face, but he managed to nod.

The doctor eyed him. "Do you know why he would have taken so many?"

Don shook his head, trying to keep the distress out of his face. "No. I think he's been taking higher than the recommended dose, though."

Jacobs' brows knit. "That might explain things a bit. The amount of the drug in his system is not life-threatening, although it will knock him out for several hours. We would have, in fact, expected him to have more of a reaction to that much of the drug, but if he has been taking more than the prescribed dosage, he would have developed a tolerance to the medication. That has very probably made this less severe than it might have been for him." He examined the bottles. "He's under the care of a Dr. Bradford?"

Don nodded. "He was – attacked - a few weeks ago. He's being treated for PTSD."

Jacobs eyed him thoughtfully. "Do you have any idea whether this might have been a suicide attempt on his part?"

Don took in a deep breath. He knew from Darla's story that Charlie had considered suicide, but he still couldn't comprehend using the same word in conjunction with his brother. "I…," His voice trailed off. "I don't know."

Jacobs nodded, feeling a twinge of sympathy as he looked at the other man's face. "It seems to me that this was not a suicide attempt – at least not a serious one. If that was the case, he would have taken the whole bottle. It is not my area to make that determination, but I'm thinking that even as large as the dose was, this was more likely an accident, an error. We'll try to find out from him when he wakes up. That won't be for quite a while. He also took in a fair amount of water and we are looking at possible aspiration pneumonia. I have given him a broad spectrum antibiotic and when he awakens we'll want to get a better chest x-ray. He'll probably need at least one breathing treatment. I would suggest that you get changed into some dry clothes and come back in few hours."

He stood, and continued, as Don slowly rose. "He will need to stay overnight for observation as well as to evaluate the severity of the pneumonia. If he responds well to the antibiotics and breathing treatments you might be able to take him home tomorrow. I will caution you, however, that he will need to see the in house psychologist to be released. If this _was_ a suicide attempt he will be admitted for a mandatory seventy two hour stay unless Dr. Bradford is willing to check him out under his direct care."

"Thank you," said Don, mechanically taking the doctor's hand. He turned and headed out to the waiting area, feeling strange and hollow inside. He needed to find a phone, and somehow break this to Alan.

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End Chapter 14


	15. Chapter 15

**Chapter 15**

Several hours later, Don sat in a vinyl armchair in the hospital room, his eyes on his sleeping brother. He had gotten into the habit of keeping extra clothes in his vehicle; they had come in handy on more than one occasion, whether it was an unexpected trip for work or just a night spent at Charlie's. He was glad he had them now. After calling his father and filling Darla in on Charlie's condition, he had dropped her back off at Benny's. She had suggested that he use the showers at the East Beach changing rooms, so he went there to rinse off the grit that the salt water had left behind, and to change. He left the sandy sodden brace in the back of his van; he had been scheduled for a doctor's appointment that afternoon to get the go-ahead to remove it. Appointment or not, it had stayed off after the shower.

He let his mind drift back over his conversation with his father. He had called him on the way to Santa Barbara to tell him that he had a lead on Charlie's whereabouts, so when he dialed his father after talking to the doctor, Alan had picked up immediately.

"_Donnie," he said simply, his voice filled with a combination of anxiety and hope._

"_Hey, Dad," Don said. He was trying to keep his voice calm, and he overcompensated; it came out expressionless, lifeless. "I found him."_

_Alan's heart leapt, but his brow furrowed at the tone. "He's okay? Where is he?"_

_Don took a deep breath. "Actually, Dad, he is okay, but he's in the hospital."_

_Panic seared through Alan. "What? What happened?"_

"_When I got here, Charlie was on the beach. Apparently he had spent the week hiking in Los Padres-"_

"_Los Padres!"_

"_Yeah. I guess he felt the need to go back and face it, that he thought it would help him. At any rate, he ran out of food and water, and caught a ride to Santa Barbara. He got here yesterday. When I found him, he was on the beach. We, uh, had a little incident. Apparently he took too much of his medication, and passed out in the water. We had to give him mouth to mouth, but we got him breathing again, and they took him to the hospital. He's still out from the medication, but the doctors think he's going to be okay." _

_Alan frowned, wondering momentarily what 'little incident' meant, but he moved on to more pressing questions. "Where is the hospital? I'm getting my things together; I'll drive up."_

"_Dad, no, look, I need to you stay there, to do something for me, something for Charlie. The doctors think the overdose was accidental, but they're not sure until they talk to Charlie."_

_Alan interrupted, his heart plummeting. "Not sure – you mean it might have been intentional?"_

_Don spoke patiently, his words belying his own fear. "Actually, they think it's more likely that it was accidental, but Charlie has been taking more of the medication than he should be. It's possible that they'll release him tomorrow, but he needs to go through a psychiatric evaluation. What I need you to do is to get hold of Dr. Bradford, and have him call the hospital. He can help facilitate the release, and he needs to know what's going on."_

_Alan paused. He couldn't argue with what Don was saying, but he felt an overwhelming need to be there himself. "All right," he agreed reluctantly. "But I need you to call me in the morning and let me know what they decide. If for any reason they do not release him, I'm coming up." _

"_Okay, Dad, I'm going to get you the contact information to give to Dr. Bradford, and then I'll call you back."_

"_All right. And Donnie – thank you. Thank you for taking care of him."_

Don recalled Alan's thanks, the relief evident in his voice, and his father's gratitude made him wince. He couldn't shake the feeling that he had caused this, that his harsh words had driven his brother, literally, into the surf.

His eyes wandered over his brother's sleeping form. The week outdoors had put color in Charlie's face, although he was still thin. He looked peaceful, normal; his external appearance at odds with what was going on inside of him. That was an enigma to Don. He couldn't fathom what his brother was going through; what he had already gone through. Guilt and worry chewed at his consciousness; guilt over his actions at the beach; and worry over Charlie's apparent abuse of his medicine. What Charlie was going through had to be horrible, to drive his normally sensible brother to drug abuse. And here he was, clueless, oblivious to it all, useless – no, worse than useless. Not only was he unable to help, he had made things worse.

He sighed and rubbed his face, and glanced at his watch. It was going on eight o'clock. Don had been there for hours; it had been almost six hours since his brother had passed out. He wasn't hungry, but he should probably find something to eat, he knew. Grab something quick, stretch his legs and come right back. He rose stiffly, and with one more glance at Charlie, slipped softly from the room.

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Charlie slowly opened his eyes. They wandered around the room, taking in the hospital bed, the monitors, the requisite television perched on its metal bracket; the half-table at his bedside. _'Hospital.' _The images traveled through his retina and made it to his groggy brain, but didn't register immediately. He sank back into the soft embrace of the drugs and closed his eyes. Several moments later, a wave of clarity hit him and a slight frown puckered his brow. He was in a hospital. The eyes came open again, and a look of confusion crossed his face as realization began to dawn.

The room was empty and silent, and he felt anxiety join the confusion. How did he get here? Was he in an accident? He moved his limbs experimentally. No pain; everything seemed to be working. Why couldn't he remember what happened? His heart had started an anxious pounding in his chest, and the monitored answered digitally, the pulse rate steadily rising. His head jerked toward the doorway at the sudden appearance of a nurse.

"You're awake," she said, stepping into the room and advancing to the bedside. "How are you feeling?"

"Okay," Charlie said uncertainly. The word caught in his throat and generated a fit of coughing, and a spasm of pain in his chest. He gasped and tried to get his composure, then looked up at her. "How did I get here?" he managed to rasp.

Her face was kind, but impassive. "The doctor will talk to you about that. You just relax; I'll page him." She turned and left the room on silent rubber-soled feet.

The haziness was receding, and Charlie frowned, trying to concentrate. What was the last thing he remembered? Flashes of it came back to him – Darla's apartment, Joey and Jerry – the beach – he was on the beach, and…Don. His gut clenched as their argument came back, registering in full force. They had argued; he had gone down to sit by the water – and what? His fragmented thoughts were interrupted by the arrival of a solid man in white coat.

"Charles Eppes?" he said, extending a hand. "I'm Doctor Martin. You were seen by Doctor Jacobs in the ER; he's passed on your report to me. Do you remember what happened to you?"

Charlie took the hand, and cleared his throat. "No. The last thing I remember I was on the beach."

The doctor's smile remained, but his eyes narrowed. "Do you remember taking any medication?"

Charlie's brow furrowed in concentration, and he stared at his lap. A sliver of a memory hit him – anger, the water's edge, and the guilty rush of pure pleasure. His mind backed into the action that preceded the memory. He had pills in his hand, and he had tossed them down, just before that. "I think I took some when I was sitting on the beach."

"Do you remember how many?"

Charlie paused. He had been taking three at once; too many, and the doctor would know that. He swallowed, and in spite of the humiliation he felt, the word came out levelly. "Three."

The doctor sighed and pulled up chair. "Mr. Eppes, you had far more than that in your system when you were brought in to the emergency department."

Charlie felt like he had been hit in the gut. "How much more?"

The doctor ignored that question and continued. "You've been taking three at a time?"

"Yes." The reply was low, with a hint of defeat.

"Judging by the levels of the drug that we found in your blood we are supposing that you doubled your normal dose of three. I take it from your responses that it was not intentional."

Charlie shook his head. He felt cold tendrils of fear starting in his chest. How could he not know he had taken six of them?

"Mr. Eppes, you realize that with three pills at a time you are far exceeding the recommended dosage. After you took your medication, you wandered out into the surf and passed out – you nearly drowned. Fortunately for you, someone was there to pull you out." He paused as a look of shock crossed his patient's face. _'Good,' _he thought_. 'He needs a dose of reality.'_

"Because of the water you took in, you are suffering from aspiration pneumonia. I'll want to get a chest x-ray to confirm its progress. Can you take a deep breath for me?"

The doctor pulled out a stethoscope and had Charlie lean forward so that he could listen to his lungs as he breathed. At the first breath Charlie felt a sharp stabbing pain in his chest. By the second breath he had begun to cough, lightly to begin with, but it quickly turned into a deep racking cough that made his chest feel like he had just run a three minute mile. After a few more moments of listening the doctor allowed Charlie to rest back against the pillow.

"I am going to monitor you overnight. I want to hear some improvement in that cough by tomorrow. You will also need to speak to our in house psychologist tomorrow to be cleared for release. I strongly recommend that you follow up with an appointment with your doctor to discuss this. Abuse of this medication can obviously be very dangerous. Do you understand?"

"Yes," said Charlie weakly, shock still apparent on his face. His mind was reeling, and he barely registered the doctor's departure. He had known of course that he had been taking too many, but until now, he had felt that it was a conscious decision; that he was in control; and he would start ramping down when he got home. For the first time, he realized that perhaps he was not in control; that he had crossed a line somehow. It was humiliating, and frightening.

He closed his eyes, trying to remember how it happened. He had been lying on the beach, and he sat up and opened the bottle. How many did he take out? He couldn't remember, and he shook his head impatiently. Then there was the football - and Don. He must have taken three of them before Don came. His brother's face, filled with anger and disgust, came back to him. Don was already angry with him, and now this. He would have a field day with this, Charlie thought, glumly. It would be just another reinforcement of what he already thought.

'_Which isn't fair,'_ he thought to himself, with rising anger. '_He has no right to judge me, and to top it off, he didn't even assess the situation accurately.'_ The nurse bustled back into the room with a fresh pitcher of water, but he ignored her, staring blankly at his hands, fighting an army of emotions; fear at his apparent loss of control of his medications, which brought with it a return of the never-ending anxiety, and a rising sense of hurt, frustration and anger as he replayed the scene with his brother in his head.

Don had picked up a sandwich in the cafeteria, and had followed a nurse down the hall to Charlie's room. At the doorway he paused, surprised and relieved to see his brother awake, but the feelings were followed immediately by a twinge of trepidation. Charlie's face was a study; misery and anger fought for dominance on his features, and Don could guess what was generating at least part of the expression. '_He has every right to be angry with me,'_ he thought dejectedly. He swallowed, trying to bolster his courage, and spoke. "Charlie."

Charlie's eyes flashed with hurt and anger as he looked up, and then he turned away, his jaw set. "Go away."

His response made the nurse pause, and she looked back and forth at them uncertainly. Don's heart sank. "Charlie," he began, with a plea in his voice.

Charlie cut him off, teeth clenched as he spoke, his eyes straight forward. "I said get out."

Don opened his mouth to speak again, but he was cut off again, this time by the nurse, who moved toward him. "Sir, he apparently doesn't want visitors right now, and visiting hours are nearly over. Perhaps you can come back tomorrow." Don held his ground for a moment as she stepped in front of him, trying to herd him away from the doorway, but the words he had been gathering died on his lips, as he took in the angry set of his brother's shoulders, the grim line of his jaw. Defeated, he let her steer him toward the hallway, without realizing that he was wearing an expression of hurt and anger identical to his brother's.

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End Chapter 14


	16. Chapter 16

**Chapter 16**

Charlie spent a restless night. The hospital could not give him more lorazepam than Dr. Bradford had prescribed without an additional prescription, so Dr. Martin had written another one allowing two more pills at each dosing, one before bed and one in the morning. That, along with Bradford's prescription, would bring the dosage up to three pills at a time. Charlie endured a lecture from him; Martin made it clear that he was not condoning three pills at once, and was only doing this because Charlie needed to come down off the medication gradually. That, Martin declared, was something that Charlie needed to straighten out with Bradford.

In spite of getting his usual dose at bedtime, Charlie got little sleep. He lay there, stewing over the argument with his brother, and when he finally dropped off, Mansour was there waiting, his malevolent presence haunting Charlie's dreams. When the nurse came to wake him in the morning for his breathing treatment, he was tired and irritated.

To add to his annoyance, the morning shift could not find Martin's prescription, and he had to make due with one pill until they handed him over his pack and his medication bottles.

He was lying back with his eyes closed, trying to fight off the tremors that were starting to take hold, when the hospital psychologist walked in. "Good morning – you are Charles Eppes?" the doctor began pleasantly. He was dark skinned, and spoke with the lilting accent of someone from India.

Charlie opened his eyes, and struggled to sit up. "Yes."

"No, no, just relax," said the man, with a beaming smile. "I'm Doctor Suri. I will be doing your psychiatric evaluation. So, you had a little accident on the beach yesterday?"

Charlie scowled. He was cranky to begin with, and the man's overly pleasant demeanor and condescending manner of speaking made him feel like two-year old. "Yes."

"Can you tell me what happened?"

Charlie paused for a moment, choosing his words carefully. "I was sleeping on the beach, and I woke up and opened my medicine. It was past time for my dose. I shook out some pills- too many, but before I could put the extra ones back, something distracted me. I can't remember for sure, but I think I took one dose then."

Dr. Suri looked down at his notes. "And one dose for you right now is three pills?"

"Yes," answered Charlie in a low voice.

Dr. Suri pursed his lips. "Too many, too many," he lilted. "Okay, what happened next?"

Charlie fought down a twinge of annoyance. '_I know it's too many. You don't need to remind me.' _He spoke, trying to keep his voice calm. "I got into an argument with my brother. I went down to sit by the water to calm down. I was angry, and I wasn't thinking. I still must have had the extra pills in my hand, and I must have taken them then, without realizing it."

"Hmmm," Dr. Suri regarded him. "There is no chance you took them on purpose? To get back at your brother, perhaps?"

"No," snapped Charlie, although he felt a little uncomfortable at the thought. "It was an accident."

"Hmmm," said Suri again. "And you are taking the pills for what reason?"

"PTSD," said Charlie, more quietly. He looked away. "I was attacked, in Los Padres, a few weeks ago."

Suri regarded him quietly for a moment. He had already spoken to Dr. Bradford, and had the case background. He and Bradford had already agreed that Charlie could be released back into Bradford's care, as long as he maintained that yesterday's event was not a suicide attempt. Suri had a feeling that there was more going on there than met the eye, but he couldn't quite put his finger on it. As long as the man made the proper responses, and seemed rational, he couldn't hold him. He was already under a doctor's care, after all.

"Okay then, I have one more question," said Suri. "Do you feel that yesterday's event was in any way an attempt at suicide?"

Charlie turned to face him, his hands clenched, but his expression level. "No, it wasn't. I already told you, it was an accident."

"Very well," said Suri nodding. "I am releasing you to your doctor's care. I have already spoken to him; you have an appointment with him Monday morning at eleven. Will you be staying with anyone over the weekend?"

"Yes, my father will be with me."

"Good. The intern will come shortly with your release paperwork. I will have the nurse bring in your belongings." He held out his hand. "Good luck." Charlie took it silently, with a nod, and the doctor left the room.

As soon as the nurse appeared with his pack, Charlie plowed through it looking for the bottle, and finding it, shook two more pills into his palm. His hand was shaking, and he stared at it a moment. How had he come to this? He closed his eyes and tossed down the pills, not because he wanted to, but because he needed to. Dragging himself into the bathroom, he managed a shower, and dressed in his last clean T-shirt and a pair of warm-up pants.

While he waited for the intern and the paperwork, his thoughts turned once again to his brother, and their argument. The absence of his brother weighed on his mind. Deep inside, so deep that he wasn't even conscious of it, there was a piece of him that was disappointed that his brother hadn't stayed. It manifested itself in his conscious mind as more anger, more irritation. Charlie had to admit that he was the one who had sent Don away, after all. So what, that his brother had left him in the hospital, to find his own way home. So what?

Finally, the paperwork was delivered and signed and he was declared released. The intern insisted that he be wheeled down in a wheelchair by an orderly. "Hospital policy," the intern offered cheerfully.

Charlie found it ridiculous. As soon as he hit the doors, he would be hiking to the nearest bus station. He certainly didn't need a wheelchair. He sat slumped in it, brooding, until it reached the entrance, and pushed through the doors. He had been staring at his shoes, and wasn't paying attention to the vehicle pulled up in front of him, so he was surprised when he got to his feet, looked over the hood at the man on the other side, and found that it was Don.

They stood for a moment, looking at each other across the SUV, one set of dark eyes locked on the other. Don spoke first. His voice was quiet, but firm. "Get in, Charlie."

Charlie broke his gaze and looked away, an expression of annoyance on his face. "I can take the bus, thanks."

Don replied calmly, but Charlie could hear the undercurrent of irritation in his voice. "Charlie, I promised Dad I would bring you home. Don't give him another reason to worry about you. Besides, you hate the bus."

Charlie frowned, but he went to the back of the SUV and threw in his pack, and then got in the passenger seat. He turned his head and stared out the window, angrily, as Don pulled away from the curb.

They rode in stony silence for several minutes, until well after Don had hit the highway. As the minutes passed, Charlie's anger grew. He was seething, and without warning, he suddenly erupted.

"You had no right to talk to me that way yesterday," he began angrily.

"I know," said Don quietly.

Charlie continued, his voice rising, his brother's agreement not even registering. "You have no idea what this feels like; what I've been through. I can't even explain it - you're not yourself, you can't think straight, and there doesn't seem to be any way out of it. I handled it the only way I could, and it took everything I had – everything. You have no right to judge me."

"I know," repeated Don softly.

The fact that his brother was actually agreeing with him suddenly dawned on Charlie, and he stared at him with his mouth open. He had been braced for an argument, and the lack of one stole the heat from his words, and the anger from his heart.

Don glanced sideways at him. "I think your friend put it best. I was an asshole."

Charlie realized he was gaping, and shut his mouth and looked out the windshield. "You realize that you just completely ruined my speech," he said grudgingly.

His words brought a small smile to Don's face, but it was twisted with regret. "Charlie, I'm sorry. I spoke first without finding out what the story was. It's just that we worried about you all week – we had no idea where you were. The last place anyone would have expected you to go was Los Padres."

"I left a note."

Don felt a twinge of irritation of his own. "Not much of one. That in itself was a little scary. It didn't exactly sound rational, you know. And you shouldn't have gone there alone, without anyone knowing where you were."

Charlie scowled. "Did it ever occur to you that I didn't want anyone to know where I was? I needed to do that on my own."

Don felt his annoyance escalating. "Well, it was irresponsible. You did it alone all right, and you almost bit off a more than you could chew."

Charlie stared at him, and Don continued. "Darla told me what you told her." He swallowed and looked away from Charlie, as the thought that he could have lost him rose in his mind once again.

Charlie set his jaw angrily and stared out of the windshield. He wasn't sure that he liked the idea that Don knew about his brush with suicide. "I don't need a lecture, and I don't need help. I made it through on my own."

Don had heard enough. "Fine. I'll remember that the next time I need to pull your ass out of the water," he snapped. "You scared the hell out me yesterday, Charlie. You need to get control over those pills, and maybe ask someone for some damn help once in a while."

"You're doing it again," Charlie shot back.

"Doing what?" said Don in exasperation.

"Judging me," snapped Charlie. "Just lay off."

Don shook his head and ran a hand over his face. He shot a frustrated glance at Charlie, who was staring angrily out of the side window. He really didn't know who the figure was beside him. His brother's thin form was almost thrumming visibly with tension. He seemed tight, brittle, about to crack. A few weeks ago, Charlie had been consumed by anxiety, cowed by terror, and now he was snappish and irritable. Neither of those people were the brother he knew. He was beginning to realize the extent of what Charlie was going through, the toll it was taking on him, and it was frightening him. He wanted to help, but he had no idea how. He only hoped that Bradford could. He really wanted his brother back.

Charlie fought down his rising irritation with an effort. It took a supreme effort just to sit still; he felt as though he was crawling inside. He needed, wanted desperately to feel normal again, and the whole process was moving too slowly. He forced himself to breath, to try to relax, and as the ride wore on, he began to calm a little, to think more rationally. It was the pills, he realized suddenly; they were making him feel this way. Along with the realization came guilt; guilt that he had allowed the pills to take over, and guilt that he let them govern his responses.

He had snapped at his brother; who had been good enough to come looking for him. Charlie hadn't realized it until Don mentioned it, but it was Don who had pulled him out of the water. His brother had saved his life, and he hadn't even bothered to thank him for it. The thought submerged him in a new wave of guilt and self-loathing. Who was the asshole now? His brother was right. He needed to get control of the pills. The sooner the better. He was filled with sudden anticipation for his appointment with Bradford. He would beat this. He couldn't wait to get started.

He was so immersed in his thoughts; he didn't realize that they were nearing home until they pulled onto his street. As Don pulled into the driveway he cast a sideways glance at him. His brother was ignoring him; focusing on the mechanics of parking the SUV. He was reaching for the door handle when Charlie stopped him. "Don?"

Don paused and looked at Charlie warily. His brother's face had changed yet again; Charlie looked miserable and uncertain.

"Don, I'm sorry. I shouldn't have said what I did."

Don's face softened in return. "It's okay, Charlie. That makes two of us."

"And I want to say thank you, for yesterday. You saved my life and I – well, I was too wrapped up in myself to even realize it-,'

Don shook his head, interrupting him. "Charlie, you don't need to thank me for that. Did you think I would do anything else? Or that you wouldn't do the same for me?" He paused. "It's okay. Don't forget your pack."

Charlie looked disappointed. "Aren't you coming in?"

Don gave him a wry look. "Based on the fact that you didn't speak to me for most of the ride here, I wasn't sure I was invited." He immediately regretted saying it, as he caught the glum look on Charlie's face. His brother's moods were mercurial, swinging from one extreme to the other, and Don was having a hard time keeping up.

"I'd really like you to stay. I'm sure Dad would appreciate it."

Charlie was nearly begging now, and Don felt like a heel for making his brother think that he had to. He hadn't meant – oh, hell – "Sure," he said softly. "I'd like that." He was rewarded with a flash of something in Charlie's eyes; something that looked more like the brother he used to know.

Charlie insisted on carrying his own pack. He was trembling, and at first he thought it was emotion generated by being home. He glanced at his watch, and he looked at the time, he realized with new disgust that it was time for a dose of pills; he was chained to them physically, and that was what was generating the tremors.

Alan had heard the SUV doors slam, and met them at the doorway, his heart filled with relief at the sight of Charlie, of the two of them. He hadn't had both of them together in the house since before Don had left for Houston. He held his arms open, and Charlie dropped the pack, and went straight into them.

"I'm sorry, Dad," he whispered, his eyes filling with tears.

Alan held him tightly, his own throat so constricted with emotion that he could hardly speak. "It's okay, son. The important thing is that you're home safely. Welcome back." To his consternation, he could feel Charlie shaking, his thin shoulders trembling. He looked over his younger son at Don. Don's face was carefully neutral, but he looked exhausted. Alan stepped back, but kept one arm around Charlie. "Come in and sit, both of you. I'll get something to drink." He gave Don's arm a light squeeze and sent him a look of gratitude.

Charlie stepped away, and picked up his pack with shaking hands. "I'll be right back," he mumbled, his head down, as he made for the stairs. Alan stared after him with concern, and then looked at Don.

Don's brow furrowed. He spoke softly, and held his father's eyes. "I think he needs his medicine." Alan turned, and watched his youngest ascend the stairs, and for a moment, silence descended, as they both stood, lost in thought.

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Later that evening, they sat in the living room. On the surface, everything seemed normal; Charlie and Don sat on the sofa together, Alan in his easy chair, and the room was bathed in warm light from the lamp. Alan was reminded of the night that Don had come over, weeks before, before Charlie's PTSD symptoms had begun. Actually, Alan thought, they had already begun then, it was just that none of them realized it yet. Don had been engrossed in the game that night; tonight the television was on, but Alan could tell his oldest son's mind was not on it.

Don flicked through the channels restlessly. Unspoken words hung in the air, generating tension. He suddenly felt the need to move, and rose from the sofa, turning the television to mute. "Anyone want anything to drink? I'm going to get a beer." They both declined, and he headed for the kitchen.

Charlie had his laptop in front of him, and was pecking away at it. Alan had noticed that he hadn't gone near the garage, not even to put away his empty pack. He hadn't had a chance to talk to Charlie about his trip yet; Alan had figured that it wasn't a good topic for the dinner table if he wanted his son to eat, and Charlie hadn't volunteered any information. He had pulled out the laptop after dinner, and Alan suspected it was an excuse; a reason to avoid conversation. His brow furrowed as Charlie stopped typing to cough; it was deep and harsh, and it was the third fit that evening.

"Charlie, I don't like the sound of that cough," Alan said. "Maybe you need to make an appointment with your regular physician."

Charlie sat back, but didn't look up from the screen. "I'm on an antibiotic for it already," he said. "They sent me home with a prescription from the hospital."

He lifted his fingers to the keyboard again, and Alan pounced before he could start typing. "Son, I'm curious, what possessed you to take off like that?"

Charlie glanced at him; then looked away. "I don't know," he said warily. "It stemmed from a lot of things, I guess. Dr. Bradford suggested that I needed to get out, to interface with people. That night, after the nightmare, you told me that I needed to decide what to do and just do it."

Alan winced as he thought back to his conversation. '_I guess I did say that," _he thought ruefully.

"I was tired of feeling that way, of the dreams, the anxiety," said Charlie. "I just wanted it to go away. I guess I thought that if I faced it down, I could get control of it." He glanced up, with a guilty expression. "I felt I needed to do it on my own. I never meant for it to worry you."

Don had opened a beer, and paused in the kitchen doorway, not sure whether or not he should intrude on the conversation.

"Well, unfortunately, it did," sighed Alan, "especially after what you had said that night." He paused and looked at his son. "You've thought of it since then." He didn't have to speak the word 'suicide' for Charlie to know what he meant.

"Yes," said Charlie. He couldn't meet his father's eyes. "While I was in Los Padres."

"And yesterday? What was that?" asked Alan. Don froze, straining for the response.

"I don't know," said Charlie, shifting in his seat uncomfortably. "I was upset, it was an accident."

"That wasn't an answer, son," said Alan. "Did you do it on purpose, or not?"

"I don't know," Charlie shot back irritably. "I wasn't thinking straight. I guess there was a second there where I didn't really care what happened." He looked up as if he had shocked himself with the words, and then looked away quickly. Silence descended. Don felt his heart drop, and he clutched his forgotten bottle of beer tightly.

Alan fought to keep his voice calm. "Charlie, you need to promise me that if you have these thoughts again, you will talk to someone first. Anyone, me, Donnie, your doctor. Just stop and think first, make the effort to talk to someone before you act."

"I know that now," said Charlie, misery and irritation combined in his voice. "It was stupid." He closed his eyes. "I just want things to be normal again. Everything. I don't want to be on the pills anymore; I don't want to fight the anxiety anymore. I want this to be over."

"You know, Charlie," Alan said quietly, "I had expected to have a conversation about suicide with your mother. In spite of the pain she was in, she never asked for it, never asked me for help, although I would have done so if she did." Charlie's stared at his lap, his face full of misery, and then raised his eyes to his father's.

Alan held his son's gaze, intently. "In her case, it was different. She knew she was going to go; the final outcome was permanent. In yours, it is not. This is a temporary situation; you _cannot_ make a decision with a permanent outcome when you are not thinking straight. You don't have that option. You _have _to tough it out. Your mother found the courage to do that. So can you."

He rose, and set down the paper deliberately. The memories and the conversation were painful, and he felt drained. "I'm going to bed. It's been a long day. Don't stay up too late." He paused by the sofa, and laid a hand on Charlie's shoulder. "I'm glad you're home, son." He held Charlie's eyes, meaningfully. "Wake me if you need anything." He looked up at the doorway. "Good night, Donnie. I'll see you boys in the morning."

"'Night, Dad," murmured Don. He watched his father head upstairs, and turned to look at Charlie. His brother's head was bowed, as if in prayer, and the only sound that could be heard was the ticking of the clock.

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End Chapter 16


	17. Chapter 17

**Chapter 17**

Charlie finished speaking, and waited silently. He had arrived for his appointment with Dr. Bradford at 11:00 that morning with mixed emotions. Anxiety and irritation had hold of him again; he knew it was the effect of the pills, but the knowledge did nothing to alleviate the feeling. He was certain that he would get disapproval and a lecture from Bradford, and he knew that he probably deserved it, and that knowledge, too, did nothing to rid him of a feeling of trepidation. At Bradford's request, he took in deep breath, and dove grimly into the story of his trip, leaving out nothing. He now sat waiting for the guillotine to drop.

His prescription bottles sat on the desk; he had brought them in at the doctor's direction, and Bradford was examining the contents and making notes. The fact that he was checking them made Charlie feel guilty somehow, like he wasn't trusted. '_Like a junkie_' he thought, disgusted with himself. '_You can't trust a junkie._'

Bradford put down the lorazepam bottle and sighed. "When we talked about getting out and interfacing; about getting back on the horse, I did not mean anything quite that drastic. This is not something you can push, Charlie."

"I don't agree, entirely," Charlie said quietly, but firmly. "I know now it was risky, but the anxiety and the dreams have improved. I don't know that there would have been that much improvement if I hadn't done that."

"Possibly not," agreed Bradford, "but you also need to weigh the risks. You were not in a state of mind to try that; which was made obvious by how close you came to suicide. You need to be truthful with me. Were those suicidal thoughts isolated occurrences, or are they something constant?"

"Isolated," replied Charlie, ignoring the change in tense in the doctor's last sentence. "I didn't really have them except for a few times after the nightmares."

"And on the beach?"

"I wasn't consciously thinking of suicide, no," said Charlie. "I couldn't have done it anyway, with only three extra pills."

"What do you think you would have done if you had been holding more of them, at that moment?"

Charlie was silent for a minute. "I don't know. I would like to think I would have stopped and thought about it first, but I guess I'm not sure." He looked up. "Either way, it was another isolated incident. It wasn't like I thought about it all the time."

Bradford eyed him. "The reason I am asking these questions is because I'm trying to determine if your SSRI might be causing the thoughts. Based on your response, I am thinking not. If it was the SSRI, the thoughts would more likely be continuous. I think we will leave the SSRI as it is for now, but I would still like to monitor the situation. The lorazepam is another issue."

"I'm ready to get off of it," Charlie said firmly. "I want to get off of it as soon as possible."

"That's good, but you need to taper off gradually. I'm going to write you a prescription for a half dose. This week, I want you to replace one of the three pills you are taking with the half dose, which will bring you down to two and a half. Next week, if it's going well, we'll take you down to two, and so forth, until you are off them."

Charlie nodded, although his heart sank. At that rate, it would be almost a month before he was even down to his original dose. Surely he could ramp down more quickly than that. He didn't care if it was painful. His thoughts were interrupted by Bradford's next question.

"You said the dreams have improved. How so?"

Charlie sighed. "They're still not normal, but they're less violent. Mansour is still in them, but he's just a presence in the background. He's always watching, like he's waiting for an opportunity, but he never does anything. They got worse when I was sick, but then improved again. I can't seem to get rid of him though; it's hard to explain – it's like he's waiting for a weak moment, for me to screw up. I wake up feeling uneasy, but it's nothing like it was."

Bradford pursed his lips. "I don't want to disappoint you, but it sounds to me more like repression than improvement."

Charlie frowned. "Repression?"

"Your attempts to rush this, to force the issue, have caused a temporary improvement. You are subconsciously managing to control Mansour's actions in your dreams. The fact that they resurface when you are sick is an indicator of that. It means that you have not dealt entirely with what happened to you. The dreams may stay this way, if you keep things relatively stable in your life, and eventually will taper off naturally as you come to terms with things. You should not be surprised, however, if the nightmares resurface, at least during the next few weeks, especially if there is any unexpected stress, like illness. That risk will remain until you work out all of the issues, and that will take some time."

'_Time,' _thought Charlie, impatiently. _'There's that word again.'_ He smiled mirthlessly. "Time is relative. I'm sure my friends in the physics department could find a way to compress it."

"Don't take this lightly," warned Bradford. "You of all people should know that this isn't a joking matter." He looked at Charlie intently. "I have something else to discuss with you. When I took you on as a case, I had intended to be dealing with a single issue – an FBI consultant, an FBI case – with a beginning and an end. I am still committed to seeing you through this particular issue."

He paused and Charlie waited, frowning. '_What is he trying to tell me?'_

"I have come to realize that with your particular gifts, and the repeated episodes of anxiety and panic that go with them, that you could benefit from longer term therapy; and from another doctor in particular. Dealing with a single issue is one thing, but continuous therapy is another. I am also your brother's doctor, and that could get messy, at least in the long term. In addition, there is a doctor in the area that would be particularly suited to you."

'_He wants out,'_ thought Charlie, his heart dropping. '_I'm too much of a basket case.'_

"His name is Dr. William Michaels. He specializes in the gifted mind, and the - shall we say quirks - that sometimes accompany it. He does research out of UCLA, and has rights to most of the area hospitals. He only takes on a few patients, and is not looking for additional ones. I have spoken to him, however, and he is willing to make an exception in your case."

Charlie nodded, feigning interest. _'I'm a drug addict. A liability. He's dumping me.'_

"This is your choice," said Bradford, as if reading his mind. "I have every intention of sticking with you through this issue. If you would like to stay with me past that, we can discuss it with your brother. One of you, though, should pick another doctor at that point. I've brought up Dr. Michaels because he is a perfect fit for you. You have a limited window of opportunity here to start with him, if you choose. Think about it this week, and let me know."

"Of course," said Charlie. He spoke easily, but his stomach was tied in a knot. "There's no question. You were Don's doctor first."

"That's not necessarily the issue, here," said Bradford. "If you feel strongly about staying, I'm sure we could discuss it with your brother-,"

"No,' said Charlie quickly. He had no intention of staying where he wasn't wanted, especially if it meant that Don had to give up his doctor. "You're right - Dr. Michaels sounds like a great fit."

"Fine," said Bradford. '_He certainly took to that. That was a little too easy.' _"If you like, you can start seeing him in conjunction with me – separate appointments of course. Here's his card. The number on it will get you his secretary. She can schedule you."

"Great," said Charlie. He suddenly felt claustrophobic; he needed to get out of there. He rose and picked up his prescription bottles and the card that Bradford offered him, and made for the door. "I'll call him, and I'll see you next week then." In the next moment he was gone, the door closing softly behind him, before Bradford had a chance to speak.

Bradford was silent. His patient still had five minutes left in his session. He frowned, suddenly uneasy. Perhaps it hadn't been a good time to bring up Michaels. He thought back over the conversation, his brow furrowed. Charlie had given every indication that he was ready to switch doctors. _'That's what is making me uneasy,'_ said Bradford grimly to himself. '_He jumped at the chance to see someone else. Apparently he couldn't wait to get rid of me.' _He was really going to have to work on his bedside manner. He sighed, and glanced at his watch. It was almost lunchtime. This afternoon, he would see the other Eppes brother. Hopefully, he would do better with that one.

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Charlie parked outside the FBI offices, shut off his car, and sat, with his hands on the steering wheel. Don had mentioned that morning that he had to make a quick trip out of town on Thursday, and that he probably wouldn't make it over for the next couple of days, and Charlie had felt a twinge of mingled guilt and unexpected disappointment. Guilt, because of how he had spoken to his brother in the car, and because he had hardly spoken to him last evening, after inviting him to stay. He wasn't sure where the disappointment came from, but between the two emotions, they prompted him to ask Don if he could meet for lunch, at least.

He sat still for a moment; his mind running over his conversation with Bradford. He conceded that perhaps Bradford really wasn't trying to dump him, but he couldn't quite shake the feeling that Bradford had taken on more than he bargained for. '_A real basket case, and now an addict._' Even if Bradford wasn't dropping him, he was at least calling in the cavalry, in the form of another doctor. The whole thing was humiliating, thought Charlie, especially his need for the drugs. He should be stronger than this. He sighed, and got out of the car, heading into the building. It was almost time to meet Don.

He entered the office upstairs and scanned the bullpen. It had been weeks since he had been there, and it hit him suddenly that he missed it; he missed the work, he missed Don's team. Don, David and Colby were nowhere to be seen, and Megan was tied up on the phone, talking and scanning her computer screen at the same time. Charlie could feel the telltale shakiness coming on that indicated he needed another dose of pills, and he fought with himself for a moment. If he could hold off until after lunch, he could pick up the new prescription, and start on the reduced dosage.

A stronger wave of trembling hit him, and he grimaced. He was too weak; he'd never make it that long. '_Two, then_,' he thought. '_I'll take two now, and a half when I get the prescription.' _He glanced around him furtively, feeling like a criminal, and slipped into the men's room, his hand already on the pill bottles in his pocket.

There was a wall just inside the men's room door that blocked off the view of the main restroom from the hall. It formed a little vestibule, and Charlie paused behind it as he heard Colby's and David's familiar voices. He didn't want them to see him taking the pills, or even to face them in his shaky condition. He would step out quietly, and find an empty conference room. He turned for the door, but the next words made him pause.

"You ready?" asked David.

"For the hearing? Yeah," said Colby, "as ready as you can be for one of those. Where are you staying?"

"At the Ramada near the airport. I think Don is too."

Charlie listened, brow furrowed. Hearing? For what?

"I wouldn't worry about it," said David. "It's pretty cut and dried, especially with Dugan backing us up."

"Yeah, I'm glad it was him and not that asshole Croyle in charge of things," Colby responded. "If it were up to Croyle, Don's head would be splattered all over the warehouse."

Charlie's breath left him, and he sagged against the wall in shock. They were talking about Don's assignment in Texas, he realized suddenly, his heart thumping painfully. His brother had almost been killed.

"Or on the highway," added David. "Did you hear Biggs talking to Don about road kill?"

"That's why I did it," said Colby. "I knew if we let that guy get in a position where we couldn't get a clean shot at him, they would have been out the door, and Don would have been history."

"You know, I've got to hand it to Don," said David. "He came out of that like it never happened – didn't miss a beat."

"I know," agreed Colby. "With that, and all this stuff he's been going through with Charlie, you'd think he'd be hurtin' a little. The man's been a rock."

Charlie could hear water running in the sinks, and the click and slide of the paper towel dispensers. The thought came to him dimly, through his shock; that they were getting ready to leave the restroom. He staggered away from the wall, pushed against the door and slipped out, somehow making it down the hall, and into a deserted conference room.

He leaned over a table, his arms trembling, and suddenly turned and staggered for the trash can, as vomit rose in his throat. When he was done heaving, he leaned back against the wall, his eyes closed, trembling, gasping for air.

He felt a wave of self-loathing rise through the horror. Don had gone on that assignment and had been apparently taken hostage and had almost been killed, and he hadn't even mentioned it. '_He probably felt that he couldn't, around me,_' Charlie thought miserably. '_I'm too weak, too drugged out to handle it, and Dad's too busy trying to handle me._ _And to top it all off, when Don got back, he had to deal with me too.'_

He pulled the pill bottles out of his pocket and stared at them, clenched in his trembling hands. He hated himself. "You need to step up and be a man," he told himself angrily, as a surge of emotion overtook him. "Enough of this. It ends today."

He hurled the bottles into the trash can, and they splattered in the vomit. Pulling the sides of the thin transparent bag up, he tied it in a knot with shaking hands and left it there. He stood for a moment, collecting himself, then opened the door, and headed quickly down the hallway for the nearest exit, fumbling for his cell phone. He couldn't face his brother at the moment – he would need to cancel lunch. Don didn't need another babysitting session anyway, Charlie thought grimly. He headed down the stairs, dialing, hands shaking, feeling the tremors start to take over.

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End Chapter 17


	18. Chapter 18

**Chapter 18**

Bradford eyed Don Eppes from across the desk. The agent hadn't made a special appointment; this was a regular monthly session which they had set up previously. Sometimes Eppes would make it, sometimes he would cancel. Lately, Bradford knew, there was plenty of fodder for discussion. He had read the reports from the incident in Laredo, and he knew first hand what had been going on with Charlie. It would be interesting to see what the agent decided to bring up. "So," said Bradford, "what's on your mind?"

Don smirked ruefully and rubbed the back of his neck. "What's not on it is more the question." He paused, but only for a second. "Charlie, mainly."

Bradford nodded. "Charlie and I met this morning."

"I know," said Don. He looked at Bradford questioningly. "How'd it go?"

"Good," said Bradford, his face blank, "why do you ask?"

"Oh, I don't know," sighed Don. "We were supposed to meet for lunch and he canceled. I thought maybe he had a rough session, you know –"

"He seemed fine when he left," said Bradford. "I can't tell you the particulars of what we discussed, but I can tell you he's considering another doctor, at my suggestion. There's a Dr. Michaels here in L.A., who deals with exceptional minds, like your brother's. He'd be a perfect fit for Charlie."

Don frowned. "And he was okay with that?"

Bradford nodded. "Why wouldn't he be?"

Don shrugged. "I don't know, he seems a little -," he paused looking for a word. He didn't want to use 'unstable.' "- out of sorts, lately. I just thought he would be more likely to stick with the status quo – you know, stability, familiarity, that kind of thing." He looked away. "Not that I've been good at understanding him lately."

"You realize that he's not himself. He'll get back there eventually, but for now, it's quite natural that he seems unpredictable."

"Yeah, it's just that I'm his brother. I feel like I ought to be able to understand him better, to know where he's coming from, and it's tough. He's always had a tendency to be a little moody, but now – his moods seem to change like the wind, with no apparent reason. I don't know what he's thinking half the time."

"Don't be too hard on yourself," said Bradford. "I'm not sure he does either. It's pretty normal actually, for him to be moody, especially with the doses of medication that he's on. It will straighten out in time."

"Did he talk about Los Padres? About – suicide?"

"I can't tell you what we talked about. What we can talk about is how all of that made you feel."

Don let out a small snort. "How that made me feel? It scared the hell out of me. It still does." He drew his brows together and closed his eyes for a moment. "I can't believe he even got that far, to think of it – it's not Charlie."

He opened his eyes and shook his head. "The thing with the pills – that's not him either. I keep thinking, there's no way he would do something like that, but every time I turn around, he's doing something out of character. He's not acting rationally; I can't predict what he'll do next."

Bradford sat forward slightly. "And because you can't predict things, you can't control them."

Raising his hands as if to emphasize his words Don said quickly, "Exactly. And I should be able to."

Bradford was looking intently at Don. They were actually getting somewhere, and right off the bat at that. It was oddly reminiscent of a verbal tennis match. For every statement Don made Bradford would follow it quickly with a new question. "And why would you think that?"

"I'm his brother. He's counting on me."

"Counting on you to do what?"

"I don't know, be there for him, protect him-,"

"From what?"

Don's voice rose in exasperation. "I don't know; from himself, from everything!"

"You think he needs protection from everything?"

Don shook his head and looked away. "No, I guess not, but some things. Even when he's feeling - normal, he needs a little looking out for. A lot of times he has his head in the clouds; he doesn't notice his surroundings, other people -,"

"And you feel it's your job to watch out for him."

'_How did we get on this topic?' _thought Don. He spoke impatiently. "Sometimes, yeah, I guess so. Where are we going with this?"

"You tell me."

Don looked away in exasperation, and Bradford studied him for a moment before he spoke again. "I'd like to try something. It's an exercise I tried with your brother a few weeks ago, although we really haven't had chance to discuss his responses. It's a way to help you clarify your ideas about things, and the questions are geared toward your feelings about those close to you, particularly your brother. I'm not sure either of you realizes it, but a large portion of how you view the world, and yourselves, is influenced by your relationship with each other."

"Yeah," said Don dubiously, and looked away. The 'if you say so' was unspoken, but plain on his face.

"Don't look so skeptical. Take this session for an example. I gave you a choice over what you wanted to talk about when you came in here. You could have picked what happened in Laredo – that had to be a frightening, unnerving event that certainly merits discussion. Instead, you picked the topic of your brother."

"How do you know I wasn't getting there, eventually?" retorted Don. "Anyway, that's over, and this thing with Charlie isn't. Isn't it natural that I would be concerned about him?"

"Absolutely. I'm not trying to argue with you, I'm just pointing out facts. And I do want to talk about Laredo before you leave here. Humor me, and answer the questions. It won't take long, and we don't need to discuss the answers today."

"Fine," said Don, resignedly.

"Very well," said Bradford, pulling a paper out of Don's file. "Let's begin. Simply answer these questions true or false. You are successful in your field, true or false."

"True," said Don. '_I've got a good team,'_ he thought. It was Bradford who had helped him to realize that in a previous session, and that their success was a reflection of his own leadership.

"Your brother is successful in his field."

"True."

"You are more successful in your field than your brother is in his."

"Are you kidding me?" responded Don incredulously. "Charlie's work is recognized all over the world, he's written books, heck, books have been written about him and his work. False…."

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Alan was at work when Charlie got home, for which Charlie was profoundly grateful. The shaking was becoming worse, and he was beginning to feel nauseated. This was going to be tough, he realized, but he was determined. He just needed some space, some privacy while he fought off the symptoms. He grabbed a bottle of water, and as an afterthought, picked up the bottle of antibiotics and his laptop. He could bring everything he needed upstairs, and hole up in his room. His father had a day of meetings planned with his partner and an important client, followed by dinner that evening. When his father got home, Charlie could pretend to be sleeping, if he wasn't already.

Many hours later, he had come to the conclusion that sleep was out of the question. He had managed to work on his laptop for a while, trying to keep his mind off of his discomfort. As the evening wore on, he had gotten ready for bed. He took his dose of antibiotic; he knew it was necessary to finish it to make sure the pneumonia was gone. Moments later, however, he was in the bathroom, heaving the dose and the small amount of water he taken with it into the toilet. He turned off the light and crawled into bed, racked with tremors, clutching his pillow to his stomach, in a futile attempt to steady himself. If he could just get some sleep, he was sure he would wake up feeling better in the morning.

He was off on both counts. Morning had come, but sleep had not. He had heard his father peek into the room when he got home the night before, and when he got up the next morning, and both times Charlie moved a little, pretending to stir in his sleep, trying to hide the tremors. Muscle spasms had started; painful attacks that came and went, and the shaking, while always there, seemed to worsen from time to time, and then recede. Charlie was beginning to doubt his ability to weather the withdrawal; it was getting worse, not better, and he realized that he had no idea how long it would take for the symptoms to subside. Too late for that now, he thought grimly; he had started it and he was going to finish it, no matter what it took.

He struggled out of bed after his father left. He could feel anxiety ramping up, and he got to his feet, pacing shakily. He had to take his mind off of this. His eyes fell on his antibiotic, and he decided to try to take it again. The bottle recommended that it be taken with food, so he made his way downstairs on wobbly legs to make toast. He had managed to choke down the antibiotic and a half piece of the toast when the phone rang. Fighting rising nausea, he picked it up in the kitchen.

"_Charlie?" _came his father's voice over the line. _"I didn't get a chance to talk to you at all yesterday. How are you doing?"_

"Okay," replied Charlie shakily.

"_Did you get breakfast?"_

"Just made some toast." Whether it stayed down or not was another story, and judging by the churning in his insides the prognosis was not good. His stomach lurched, and Charlie was suddenly desperate for the conversation to end; he was certain that the toast was not going to stay put.

"_Good." _His father sounded relieved. _"How did your session go yesterday?"_

"Okay. He told me to start ramping down off the medicine." Another surge of nausea rose in him and he was suddenly covered in cold sweat.

"_Oh?" _The concern was back in his father's voice. _"Have you started? How is it going?"_

"Yeah, um, it's okay. Look, Dad, I have to go," Charlie said, trying to cut the conversation short.

"_Do you need me to come home?"_

"No, Dad, I'm fine – I 'll see you tonight." He hung up the phone and dashed for the bathroom; barely making it to the toilet before his breakfast came up. He staggered back into his bedroom, and collapsed on the bed. So much for taking the antibiotic with food, he thought glumly.

He laid there most of the day fighting the muscle spasms, the rising anxiety, and the fatigue. He was exhausted, and he knew he needed sleep, but it refused to come. His father called again in the afternoon, and Charlie again assured him he was okay. There was nothing his father could do for him anyway, Charlie knew. The withdrawal symptoms just had to run their course. By late in the day the anxiety was getting unbearable, and he rose from the bed. As bad as he felt physically, he knew he needed to find something to occupy his mind.

He dragged himself from bed and nearly fell over with dizziness as he stood, and he grabbed the side of the bed for support. The room spun as he crept forward, bent over, trembling; his hands on the bed for balance. He made it to the desk, and squinted, trying to make out the wavering keyboard in front of him. Fumbling for the desk light, he flicked it on, and eased his way into the seat. He managed to turn on the computer, and was trying to make out the blurry text, when a knock came at his door.

He squinted at the time in the corner of his screen. '_Six p.m._' he read. His father was home. "Yeah?" he called. '_Six p.m. – that's thirty hours,' _he thought to himself. '_I've made it thirty hours._'

"Charlie?" Alan poked his head in the room. "What are you doing, son?"

"Just working,' mumbled Charlie. He was gripping the chair bottom with one hand, trying to hold himself steady.

Alan squinted into the gloom. Charlie had the shades pulled, and the desk light didn't offer much illumination. "Have you been up here all day?" He stepped forward, eyeing his son anxiously. "How are you feeling?"

"Not too good," Charlie admitted. As if to reinforce his words, a sudden coughing spell hit him, and along with it, came the familiar dreaded feeling of a rising panic attack.

"What is it?" asked Alan, as Charlie fought to regain his breath. "Is your cough worse?" He put a hand on Charlie's forehead. It felt warm, and his son was trembling. "Maybe you should get in bed."

Charlie struggled to calm himself as the panic surged. He bent over, gasping and trembling, and he felt his father's arms around him.

"Charlie, what is it?" Alan exclaimed again, a stab of fear running through him.

"Panic attack," Charlie gasped. "I'm okay -," The rest of the words were cut off, as he bent over his knees, trying to control his breathing.

Alan held him for a moment, watching him, his concern rising. "Charlie, maybe I should call the doctor."

"No," managed Charlie. He sat hunched over for a moment, forcing himself to breath deeply. The attack began to recede, but it left him exhausted and shaky. "It's because I'm coming off the medicine." He sat up in his chair, still trembling and breathing heavily, avoiding his father's eyes.

"Then I need to call Dr. Bradford," said Alan firmly. "This is ridiculous. He needs to pull you off more slowly if your symptoms are this bad."

"No," Charlie protested. He wasn't going to go through all of this; and get this far, only to have to go back on the medicine again. "He's gone for the day anyway. We'll call him tomorrow if it isn't any better. I just need some rest." He rose, his movements tentative and wobbly, and Alan helped guide him to the bed.

Charlie curled up on his side, and Alan stood, eyeing him uncertainly. "Can I get you something? Do you want dinner?"

"No," said Charlie emphatically. The mere thought of food was enough to send his stomach into gyrations. He closed his eyes. "I just need some sleep."

"All right," said Alan. "I'll check in on you in a bit. Call me if you need anything." He left the room, with a doubtful backwards glance before he shut the door. Was this normal? Surely there was an easier way to come off the medication. He stood in the hallway a moment, and wondered if he should call Bradford anyway. Finally, he decided to wait. He would check on Charlie later, and see how he was doing before he made a call.

After two hours of tossing and turning, Charlie was beside himself. He was beyond exhaustion, but sleep was impossible. Besides the shaking, the painful muscle spasms were getting worse, and he had started twitching, to top it all off. He found himself wishing mightily that he had kept just one pill, just one, to take the edge off. He was sure if he could sleep, he would feel better. He just needed something to get him to drop off…

He suddenly sat up in bed, shaking, his eyes wide open in the darkness. Sleeping pills. He wasn't on the medication anymore – he hadn't been for thirty-two hours now. It should be safe to take a couple of sleeping pills. He should have thought of this before. He pulled the covers back and crept out of bed, and headed toward the bathroom. He found the pills in the medicine cabinet, and filled a cup with water. He shook two into his trembling palm, and paused, uncertain for just a moment. He pushed the feeling aside. As wired as he was, two sleeping pills would probably just barely take the edge off. If he could keep them down.

He tossed them into his mouth with an unsteady hand, chased them with a sip of water, and made his way back to the bedroom. He lay down shakily on the bed and pulled the covers up. '_Stay down, stay down,' _he implored the pills. He could feel nausea starting, and he fought to keep it at bay. The longer he could hold off, the more of the medicine that would get into his system. After a few moments, he started to feel a welcome little push of relaxation. The tremors were slowing, his body slackened. '_Thank God,' _he thought, as his eyes began to close. A few moments later, he was finally asleep.

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Alan woke, sitting bolt upright in the darkness, his heart pounding. A blood curdling scream ripped through the night, then another. It was coming from Charlie's room, he realized, although it didn't sound like his son. It didn't even sound human. He flung the covers aside and hurried down the hall, wondering in bewilderment what had happened. Charlie had been sleeping soundly, peacefully, when he went to bed. He burst into the room as Charlie screamed again. He was writhing in his bed, gasping and moaning, and Alan rushed forward and gripped his arms.

"Charlie. Charlie!"

Charlie eyes were half open, but not focused on anything in the room. He twisted and moaned again, and his voice rose, growing into another scream that ended in a choking sob.

"Charlie, wake up," commanded Alan, fear driving sharpness into his voice. He pulled Charlie into a sitting position and leaned his body against his. "Wake up. You're having a nightmare."

Charlie's head dipped; then lifted groggily. He blinked, his eyes were still unfocused, but his breathing started to calm, and Alan felt a slight shift of weight as his son started to sit up on his own. He looked at his father, dazedly. "He needs to cut," he said, his voice flat and toneless.

Alan's stomach clenched at the words, and the odd look in his son's eyes. "Charlie. You were having a nightmare. You're home now, in your bed."

Charlie stared at him a moment, then, awkwardly lowering himself with his arms, laid back and closed his eyes.

"Charlie?" Alan got no response, and in a moment, his son's breathing was regular again. Charlie had never even really woken up, Alan thought. Rising quietly, he pulled the covers back over his son, and crept back to bed. Less than a half hour later, he was up again, ripped from sleep by his son's screams.

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By six in the morning, Alan had given up on sleep. He had calmed Charlie down yet again a few moments before, and he dressed and made his way downstairs quietly to make coffee, counting the minutes until he could call Bradford at his office. Charlie had woken with nightmare after nightmare, each time groggy and unfocused. Actually, it was wrong to call it waking, thought Alan. Judging by the odd disconnected look in his son's eyes and the incomprehensible comments, Charlie was still asleep, or least only partially awake. Bradford would need to adjust the medication; to do something, Alan thought grimly, as settled at the kitchen table with a cup of coffee. Neither he nor Charlie would go through another night like the last one.

He had just taken a sip, when a crash exploded from upstairs, and he started, spilling his coffee. He slammed the cup down, sloshing coffee on the table, and charged for the stairs. He could hear thumps, followed by another crash coming from his son's room, and he burst through the door. Charlie was in the middle of the room, tearing the covers from his bed. His computer lay against the far wall, along with some of his books, and his lamp lay in front of Alan, twisted and bent. He looked at his son in shock. "Charlie!"

Charlie turned to face him, his eyes wild, his face contorted with frustration. "I can't find it!" he yelled. He turned back to the bed and grasped the sheets, ripping them from the bed, and tossed them aside.

Alan stood, stunned, for a moment then moved forward and grabbed Charlie by the shoulders. "Charlie. Charlie! Look at me! Can't find what? Look at me!"

Charlie twisted from his grip. "It's gone!" he raged. "Where in the hell is it?" He pulled away, making for the nightstand, and toppled it, spilling everything it contained.

He turned, and Alan's blood froze at the look in his eyes. They were deranged, unfocused. "Charlie, you're dreaming again," he said, almost pleading. This had to be a dream, another nightmare.

"Get the hell out!" snapped Charlie, his face twisting with rage. He clenched his hands into fists, and his shoulder twitched, jerking in a crazy spasm. "Get out!"

"Charlie, tell me what you're looking for," pleaded Alan, trying to placate him. "I'll help you find it."

"NO!" screamed Charlie. He picked up his desk chair in a rage, and flung it across the room. It hit the wall next to the head of the bed, gouging a hole in the plaster. Muttering to himself, he dropped to his knees and began scrabbling among the items on the floor.

Alan backed out slowly, his heart pounding. Turning in the hallway, he ran for his room, and the phone.

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Don slipped his shirt on and ran the towel over his hair again. He had spent another late night at work, trying to catch up on things before he left for Houston and the hearing, and was looking at another long day ahead. He strolled into the kitchen, barefoot, buttoning his shirt, intending to start a pot of coffee, thinking over what he needed to get done that day. He was reaching for the coffee canister when the phone rang, and he picked it up on the second ring.

"_Donnie?_"

He recognized his father's voice, but it sounded strange, and Don frowned. "Yeah, it's me, Dad. What's up?"

Alan's voice was shaking. "_Donnie, there's something wrong with Charlie."_

Don's voice rose in alarm. "What, is he sick?"

"_I don't know, he was up all night with terrible nightmares, and now he's acting strangely – he's tearing apart his room, looking for something, and he screamed at me to get out. He just threw a chair at his wall." _

Don's stomach clenched, but he tried to reason. "Maybe the medicine is making him irritable – he's been pretty moody lately-"

"_Donnie, I know Charlie and moody. This is not moody. His eyes don't look right – he - there's something wrong. He was having a hard time with withdrawal yesterday – maybe his dosage needs adjusted."_

"Okay, listen, I've got Bradford's cell phone number," said Don, flipping his own cell phone open. "Just hang tight, I'll be right over, and I'll call Bradford on the way." He hung up, scrolled to Bradford's number on his cell phone, and hit dial, as he slipped sock-less feet into his shoes, apprehension rising in his gut.

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Alan hung up the phone, and turned in time to catch a glimpse of movement in the hallway. Hurrying toward the stairs, he saw Charlie headed down them, and he paused, watching quietly. His son appeared to be looking through the rooms, as if in search of someone, and Alan started down the stairs, thinking that perhaps it was him that Charlie wanted. Charlie was standing near the dining room, with his back to him, and Alan called his name.

Charlie turned, with a glint of madness in his eyes; and a twisted smile on his face. "Where in the hell did that boy go?"

The words came out as a drawl, and Alan's skin crawled. "Charlie?" he said again, in shock, almost not realizing he was speaking.

Charlie was shaking, and he moved into the kitchen, stumbling. "Need to teach that boy a lesson," he drawled, leering crazily. He began yanking out drawers, and pulled one out so hard it fell onto the floor, spilling its contents. The phone rang, and Alan sidled toward it and lifted the receiver, his eyes riveted on Charlie.

"_Dad?"_

"Donnie." Alan's voice was filled with tension.

"_Dad, I got Bradford. He's on his way over, and so am I. I'll be there in a couple of minutes. How's he doing?" _

"He's in the kitchen. He just said something about teaching a boy a lesson," Alan replied shakily. He watched as Charlie picked something up off the floor and turned toward him, and his heart jolted as he saw the glint of the carving knife in his son's hand. "Oh my God," he breathed.

"_What?"_

"Donnie, he's got a knife."

There was a moment of shocked silence on the other end, and then Don's voice came, tight with repressed fear. "_Dad, hang up right now, get out of the house, and call 911. Tell __them you need an ambulance only, that there's an officer on the scene."_

Alan ignored him and lowered the phone. "Charlie?" he said gently. "Put down the knife, son."

Charlie moved forward, sidling toward the stairs, and Alan circled warily, keeping a few feet between them. Charlie scowled in response. "Damn sonofabitch. He shouldn't have run off like that." His eyes glinted with fury and madness, and he stepped backward onto the first step.

Alan could hear Don's frantic voice on the phone, and he raised it to his ear, his eyes still on Charlie. As soon as he did so, Charlie turned and ran up the stairs, moving with frightening speed. "Donnie. He just went upstairs with the knife," said Alan, panicked. "What do I do?" A door slammed above, and Alan gripped the phone convulsively.

"_Stay away from him, Dad. I'll be there in five minutes. Do you hear me? Stay away. Get out of the house. Leave the front door open, and wait for me outside."_

Alan was shaking, and he backed up against the front door and opened it, leaning against the door jamb to keep his legs from going out from under him. He hung up on Don, and with trembling hands, dialed 911.

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End Chapter 18


	19. Chapter 19

**Chapter 19**

Dr. Bradford had actually arrived at the house before Don and was hurrying across the lawn when Don pulled up. Bradford was wearing a dress shirt and pants, but was minus the tie and jacket; his shirt collar hanging open. Don was out of the vehicle in a flash and sprinted across the yard, arriving at the door just behind Bradford, where they stopped, facing Alan.

"Is he still upstairs?" asked Don breathlessly, before Alan could speak.

Alan nodded and managed to get out an affirmative. "Yes." He looked pale and ill, and he stepped aside shakily. They pushed into the house, and Don bounded up the stairs, Bradford and Alan behind him.

"What happened?" Bradford spoke the words on a run, and directed them toward Alan's back.

"I'm not sure," Alan spoke over his shoulder as he ascended the stairs behind Don, his voice jerky with the effort and with emotion. "He was having pretty bad withdrawal symptoms yesterday – he was sick but he seemed normal. Then last night he started having horrible nightmares, one after another. It seemed like he would only be partially awake after each of them – he seemed pretty out of it."

They had arrived in the hall. Don had taken a quick look down the hallway, and found that the door to his room was closed. He paused outside it, listening; he could hear a voice inside. His brother was talking to himself.

Alan continued, looking at Don and the door anxiously. "Then this morning, he woke up, half crazed, looking for something. He was violent, throwing things. I called Don, and when I got off the phone, he had gone downstairs."

Don had tried the door while his father was talking, and found that it was locked. He pounded on the door with his fist. "Charlie!" he yelled. "Charlie, open the door!"

"He has a knife," said Alan, pale and shaking. "He's talking strangely, with a southwestern accent – something about a boy running off."

Bradford had listened to Alan, his frown deepening, and fear twisted in his gut at the last words. His eyes met Don's. "Mansour."

Don's breath hitched and he pounded on the door again, furiously. "Charlie! Open up!" Not waiting for a response, he muttered, "Stand back." Backing up a step, he kicked at the door. It shuddered with the blow, but held. For the first time, Alan cursed the workmanship in the home. The door was heavy; solid oak. They didn't make bedroom doors like that anymore. They could hear sirens in the distance.

Don kicked again. "Charlie!"

Bradford was frowning. "I don't understand it. He should have been experiencing very mild withdrawal symptoms, if any. I only took him down to two and a half from three." Don kicked the door again, and Bradford faced Alan. "I need you to find his prescription bottles."

Alan nodded anxiously, as Don kicked once more. The door exploded inward as the lock gave, and as it swung fully open, they stood, rooted in place by shock.

Charlie was seated against the far wall, in a pool of blood. There was a smear of it on his face, his ankles were covered in it; it streamed down his feet, and he was drawing the knife across his lower leg, watching with detached fascination, as it sliced into his skin, generating new rivulets. He looked up at them and smiled; it was twisted, deranged. "Damn boy. Gonna teach him a lesson." His expression changed suddenly and he scowled at them, drawling. "You can't have him. He's marked." The three of them stared for a moment, sickened.

They could hear voices and clatter downstairs as the emergency technicians entered, and Don found his voice first. "Up here!" he yelled. He stepped forward into the room, slowly, and Charlie lifted the bloody knife, pointing it at him. "Charlie," said Don gently, his heart pounding. "Put down the knife."

"You can't have him!" Charlie screamed, his eyes glittering with madness, with hate. "He's marked!" He scooted away slightly, pushing back against the wall, brandishing the knife.

Alan's heart contracted painfully. "Donnie- " he said, but Don ignored him, edging closer to Charlie.

Bradford stepped in behind Don, as the EMTs appeared in the doorway. "Mansour!" he said sharply, and Charlie's head jerked as he focused on him. "Mansour, you know this isn't the right place for this," Bradford, said soothingly. "You need to let us take him to the forest." Don edged closer, and Bradford inched forward behind him.

"NO!" screamed Charlie, his eyes darting back and forth wildly between them. He lifted the knife and drove it into his thigh. "Need to cut," he growled savagely, lifting the knife and plunging into his leg again. Blood poured from his thigh, and Don felt fear grip him, as he saw it gush, dark red. Charlie had hit something critical, he realized. There was no more time for negotiation.

He lunged forward, sliding to his knees next to Charlie, and Charlie slashed at him savagely with the knife. Don writhed backward, hollowing his torso like he was dodging an inside pitch, but the knife made contact, gashing his side. He ignored the pain, and deftly grabbed Charlie's knife hand as it came up. "Charlie, let go," he commanded between clenched teeth.

Charlie responded by grabbing at it with his other hand, furiously trying to maintain his grip, his eyes focused on the knife. His strength was amplified by madness, and it was all Don could do to keep hold, to keep the knife elevated. "Charlie," he barked, trying to get his brother to look at him.

Charlie was panting, and his strength was waning a bit, sapped by the blood loss. He lifted his eyes to Don's, and as they made contact, the fury died, replaced by confusion. "Donnie?" he said in a lost voice, the drawl gone. "Can't take him, Donnie. He's marked." He stared for a moment; his eyelids drooped, and the knife suddenly clattered to the floor.

Bradford lunged forward and picked it up, and barked at the stunned technicians in the doorway. "It's clear, get in here!" They surged into the room, maneuvering the gurney, galvanized by the words, and Alan pushed in after them.

Don was still holding Charlie's bloody hands; his brother had him in a tight grip, as if he were a human lifeline, and there was nothing on the face of the earth that would make Don let go. He moved aside a bit to let the technicians in, but maintained his hold. "Charlie," he said, as his brother's eyes began to close. The words were intended as a command, but they came out as a plea. "Charlie, stay with me, okay?" Charlie's head lolled sideways, and his eyes drifted shut.

The technician nearest him pushed him gently but firmly aside. "We need to lift him. Let go sir." Charlie's grip had loosened and Don reluctantly released him, his eyes following his brother's face as he was moved. They quickly lifted Charlie onto the gurney, and one of the technicians placed his hand in the hollow where the leg attached to the torso and bore down hard. The blood flow eased immediately.

Alan stared at the pool of blood on the floor, in shock. It seemed massive. No one could possibly survive that, he thought dully. The technicians, who had been joined by the ambulance driver, were moving the gurney out, and one of them spoke over his shoulder. "There's room for one to come with us."

"Go, Dad." Don spoke quietly, an undercurrent of despair in his voice.

Alan looked up at Don, trying to collect his thoughts, to get his shock-battered mind to work. He saw the blood blooming on his son's shirt. "Donnie – you're hurt." He turned to call to the technicians. "Wait, he needs to come with you!"

"No, Dad, I'm fine, it's a scratch," Don interjected, staring at the floor. He had seen this much blood before at crime scenes, and it had always belonged to a dead body. His father needed to be with Charlie, in case… He looked up and met Alan's eyes. "You go with him. I'll be right behind you."

Bradford nodded. "I'll come with Don. Go. Where would Charlie keep his prescriptions?"

Alan paused, his brows knit, trying to sort through the confusion generated by the nearly unbearable mixture of dread and panic in his gut. "I – I would guess his room, maybe, or the bathroom. There's one bottle in the kitchen, but I think it's his antibiotic." Bradford nodded, and Alan turned and followed the technicians out, his shoulders slumped.

Bradford turned toward Don. The agent looked pale, ill. "Is that really just a scratch?"

Don lifted his shirt, and pulled gently at the edges of the cut, and the blood seepage quickened. It was a nasty gash, about six inches long; and definitely needed stitches, but it appeared to be superficial. "It's fine," he said abruptly. "Let's find those bottles, and get out of here." He was standing near the window, and the movement outside captured his eye. He could see the technicians loading Charlie into the ambulance, and he was taken by a sudden horrible premonition that it was the last time he would see his brother alive. He saw his father climb in after them, stooped like an old man, and he stood transfixed, as the driver closed the doors and jumped in, and the ambulance pulled away down the street.

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Don lay numbly on the exam table, as an intern stitched up his side. He sat up with a wince when the intern indicated he was finished, and mechanically put on the clean shirt he had grabbed when he and Bradford had finished looking for the pill bottles. The search was fruitless, although Bradford had picked up a bottle of sleeping pills that were sitting on the bathroom sink, and had brought the bottle of antibiotics. There was still a chance; Don thought, that the bottles were somewhere in the mess that was his brother's room, but they had done a relatively thorough search there, and had come up empty handed.

He sat there, as the intern left to get paperwork, and tried to get his mind around what had just transpired. His brother had made it to the hospital alive, but in critical condition, and was now in surgery. The whole thing was beyond horrifying; it was inconceivable. To see his intelligent, articulate brother reduced to a raving maniac – he shuddered, and his stomach twisted with nausea. This could not be happening. Could. Not. Be. Happening.

The intern returned with the forms, and after signing, Don slid off the table with a grimace of pain, grabbing his bloody shirt almost absently, and went to join his father. As he walked up to him, he noted almost detachedly that his father looked like a stranger – an old man, beaten, defeated. Don swallowed hard and sat next to him, squeezing his shoulder briefly. His soiled shirt hung from his hand, the blood on it a garish reminder of what they had just witnessed.

"Nothing yet," said Alan quietly. They sat together in silence, like bereft mourners at a funeral.

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End Chapter 19


	20. Chapter 20

**Chapter 20**

The wait was agonizing. After what seemed an eternity, Don saw Bradford making his way down the hall towards them. When they had gotten to the hospital, Bradford had seen Don safely into the care of the emergency room physician, and then had disappeared to make phone calls. He was now returning, flanked by two other doctors in white lab coats. The group looked grim, and Don's heart dropped. His father had risen to his feet, and Don slowly joined him as they approached.

Dr. Bradford made introductions. "This is Dr. McIntire," he said indicating a thin red haired man with a reddish complexion, "and Dr. Michaels." Dr. Michaels was a blandly good-looking man of average height with light brown hair, someone that would blend into a crowd as unnoticeable, until one got a look at his eyes. They were light gray, piercing, and brimming with intelligence.

Dr. McIntire spoke. "There's an office over here. Please follow me."

Alan felt his heart go into a free fall. They were going to tell him that Charlie didn't make it, he thought with sudden despair, but realized in almost the same instant that if that were the case, they wouldn't have sent three people; they would only have sent one. His heart rocketed back up, and its crazy roller coaster ride made him dizzy. He followed them on suddenly weak legs, Don behind him.

The office was small. Dr. McIntire indicated the chair behind the desk to Dr. Michaels, who sat. There were two chairs in front of it, and Don and Alan took those. McIntire perched on a corner of the desk, and Bradford stood, leaning against a wall.

McIntire spoke first, and addressed Alan. "I will be the attending physician for your son's physical injuries. You should know first that he is out of surgery, and is currently in stable condition. He lost a great deal of blood. Most of the loss was due to the wound in his thigh, which severed the femoral vein. The vein has been repaired. The other cuts on his legs were fairly superficial and have been stitched. He is receiving transfusions to replace the lost blood. There was one complication during surgery. His heart did stop briefly on the table, but we managed to get it started again, almost immediately. We don't expect any long term effects from that." He paused for a moment, to allow them to digest the flood of information, which he had delivered in emotionless, clipped words.

Alan found himself gripping the arms of the chair, and at the news that his son's heart had stopped, squeezed them so tightly the knuckles went white. He seemed to have lost his voice, and nodded silently, indicting that the doctor could continue, and McIntire did. "He does seem to have a possible infection. His temperature is elevated – sometimes that happens due to the effects of shock, but considering the fact that he has been on antibiotics, we want to be sure. He is being sent for a chest x-ray as we speak, to check for progression of pneumonia. There can be complications from receiving such a massive blood transfusion, and we will monitor him for those. Otherwise, we think his prognosis is good, physically."

Don caught the qualifier at the end of McIntire's sentence. The prognosis is good physically, he thought grimly. What about mentally?

Michaels picked up his cue. His voice was pleasant, precise. "I will be in charge of your son's psychiatric care, and Dr. Bradford has agreed to support me. We will be admitting Dr. Eppes to the psychiatric ward. We have an isolation unit that is equipped for critical care; it's outfitted with the same equipment as the ICU. For his own safety, we will need to restrain him. We had to give him general anesthesia for surgery, but because of the potential chemical imbalances, we do not want to sedate him beyond that. When he wakes up, he will need to be restrained." Don had a sudden vision of Charlie bound to a bed, and he felt nausea return.

Michaels continued; a hint of sympathy in his eyes. "To be honest with you, we don't have all of his blood work back yet, but we have enough information for a guess. Keep in mind that this is speculation so far. The additional information will either confirm it, or cause us to make a different diagnosis. You have the choice right now to wait for the additional information and a full prognosis; or to listen to what we have, knowing that it might change."

Alan looked at Don, who nodded almost imperceptibly; and then back at Michaels, and cleared his throat. "I would like to know what you have. I'll understand if you need to change it." His voice sounded oddly calm, belying the turmoil inside of him.

Dr. Michaels nodded. "Dr. Eppes is experiencing what we call a psychotic break. It is a sudden inability of the brain to perceive reality, to reason normally. It is manifested by psychotic behavior, including confusion, inability to respond appropriately to everyday situations, and hallucinations, among other things. He has basically no control over his thoughts or his actions."

He paused. "That part of the diagnosis will not be subject to change. What will be subject to change is what the prognosis will be; in other words, will he be able to recover from this, and if so, how long will it take him. We won't know that until we are sure what caused it."

"Here is our hypothesis. We believe that for some reason, Dr. Eppes stopped taking his medication. Initial results show very little trace of lorazepam in his system; and evidence also that the SSRI he was taking was discontinued. The lorazepam is the primary concern. It is addictive, and if stopped suddenly, especially at the high levels that your son was on, can result in psychosis. It does not help matters that he also discontinued the SSRI. You mentioned to Dr. Bradford that he seemed to be experiencing severe withdrawal symptoms over the last day or two."

At Alan's nod, he continued. "We think that sometime after Dr. Bradford saw him on Monday, he stopped the medication, and from the preliminary results, we also think it was probably the same day."

Don ran his hand through his hair and looked at Bradford. "Why would he do that?"

Bradford shook his head. "I'm not sure. We went over the instructions. I gave him a prescription for a half dose. He was to replace one of his three pills with the half dose, for a period of a week, after which we would evaluate him and possibly drop him another half dose for the next week, and so on. I checked with the pharmacy where he has been getting the prescriptions filled, and they had no record of filling the new prescription. When he left, he seemed in decent spirits, and he seemed to understand the instructions. At some point, however, he must have made the decision to try to stop cold turkey."

Michaels spoke. "Stopping lorazepam suddenly can cause psychosis in and of itself. We think that Dr. Eppes might also have taken some other medication last evening, possibly sleeping pills; that might have amplified the effect."

Alan frowned, and Bradford held up the bottle of sleeping pills. "I found these on the sink in your bathroom. It may be that you took them?"

Alan shook his head. "No. And they were in the medicine cabinet. If they were on the sink, Charlie must have taken them out. I don't remember seeing them sitting there before I went to bed, but I have to admit, I might not have noticed them. I was pretty tired." He looked at them, with chagrin on his face. "Would it have made a difference if I had?"

Michaels shook his head. "By that time, I'm sure they would already have been in his system. This is actually good information. It reinforces our hypothesis. The lab is checking for presence of the sleep medication now."

Don shifted impatiently in his seat. "So what difference does it make?"

Michaels turned his gaze on Don. "If the psychotic break was chemically induced, there is a good chance that we can reverse it chemically. Most people that suffer from lorazepam withdrawal can be successfully treated by putting them back on it, then withdrawing it again gradually, as Dr. Bradford had planned."

"Most people," Don repeated.

Michaels' brow furrowed. "A psychotic break is by its nature unpredictable, and indicates a large disturbance in the brain. If it is caused by something other than a chemical disturbance the prognosis is much worse. Even with a chemical cause, there is a small percentage of patients that recover only partially, and a very small percentage that don't recover at all. The chances of that are minute, but it is a possibility."

There was dead silence in the room. "Oh my God," whispered Alan. He put his head in his hands.

Don felt lightheaded, and he gripped the arm of the chair. "When will we know for sure?"

"We will start him back on the medicine immediately and begin to monitor him. I expect that we will have a good idea within three to four days."

'_Three to four days,'_ thought Alan in despair. An eternity. "When can we see him?"

Michaels frowned, and didn't speak for a moment. "Frankly, at this point, I don't recommend that you visit him. You can, if you insist, but you won't be helping him; he probably won't even recognize you."

Alan spoke firmly. "You don't know that. Even if it's subconscious, it may help him to know we're there."

Michaels pursed his lips. "That's highly unlikely. However, if you insist, I can't stop you. You are within your rights to view the treatment of a patient that cannot think for himself. He will be in the room within the hour; we need to get him situated before he begins responding to the transfusion. He may be there already."

Alan's heart leapt. "Then we can go as soon as we're done here?"

Michaels sighed and he exchanged a look with Bradford. He looked back at Alan, and then at Don. "You can, but I am warning you, this may be very painful for you to witness. I do not recommend it."

"I don't care," said Alan stubbornly. "I want to be there for him." '_He needs me'_ he added to himself. _'He's my son. Surely any pain is worth it – and I've already seen the worst – I'll find a way to handle it.'_

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Moments later, the group stood in the hallway of the psychiatric ward. The trek through the hospital had been made largely in silence; Don and Alan each trying to process what had happened; what they had just been told. The normal act of walking through a hallway and seeing people go about their everyday business somehow seemed surreal to Don; normal seemed jarring; at odds with what was happening.

Dr. Michaels was speaking with an intern. He nodded; then stepped back to address the group.

"Charlie is in his room, and he is conscious, but he is in a highly agitated state. I want you think carefully about your decision. Do you still intend to see him?"

Alan nodded with conviction. "Yes."

Don felt a flutter of apprehension. Maybe this wasn't a good thing for his father to see. For that matter, maybe it wasn't a good thing for either of them to see. His father seemed certain of his decision, however, and it made Don feel a bit ashamed. Surely if Alan could handle this, he could too. Don's eyes scanned the group, as if their reactions would somehow give guidance, and noticed that Bradford was watching him. He suddenly felt like a lab rat under observation, and he shifted uncomfortably.

"Very well," said Michaels. He turned, indicating for them to follow. "I need to warn you, he is heavily restrained. We needed to ensure that he could not move his limbs, or even his hips, to keep him from doing further damage to his injured leg, and to prevent him from displacing his IV lines."

He led them down the hall and then down another corridor that dead-ended in a trio of rooms. There was a bench in the hallway, and they gathered near it. Very faint noises were coming from one of the doors. "These rooms are sound-proofed as much as possible," stated Michaels. "When I open the door, the noise level will increase dramatically. You also need to understand that he is not aware of what he is saying."

Alan paled, but spoke levelly. "I understand."

Dr. Michaels nodded and opened the door, and they stood still for a moment in shock. Charlie was writhing, bound by soft restraints to the bed, tied at his wrists and at several points along his arms and legs. He was covered with a light blanket, but Don could see restraints protruding from underneath at the level of his hips. He could move his torso and shoulders only slightly, but his head was free, and he twisted as much as the bindings would allow him.

The sight of his brother in restraints was shocking, but the noise was even more so. Charlie was screaming at the top of his lungs, much of it incoherent. Don saw his father step forward slowly ahead of him into the room. He couldn't see the expression on Alan's face, but he knew it must be similar to the horrified one on his own.

Charlie twisted again and his face turned toward them. His eyes were filled with manic rage, and came to rest on Alan. "You damn sonofabitch!" he screamed. "Give him back. He's marked. GIVE HIM BACK!" The screams degenerated into inhuman howls of rage, punctuated by swearing.

Alan doubled over suddenly, and Don darted to his side, putting an arm around him. His father's face looked gray and stunned, and he groaned, "I can't do this. My God…"

Don could feel his father stagger, and he turned him gently, helping him out of the room and onto the bench in the hallway. Alan's legs gave as soon as he was over the bench, and he sat heavily, bent forward over his knees, his chest heaving. Dr. Michaels let the door swing shut, and the hallway was suddenly silent, except for the faint noises that came from Charlie's room. Don had broken into a cold sweat; he could feel nausea rising, and he looked back up the corridor. Dr. Bradford caught the look.

"The restroom is just around the corner to the left," he said quietly.

Don hesitated, not wanting to leave his father, and swallowed hard, but the sick feeling was intensifying, and he suddenly realized he had no choice. He rose and staggered down the corridor, trying to fight it back. He actually made it nearly to the restroom before he lost the contents of his stomach, and collapsed against the hallway wall for support.

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End Chapter 20


	21. Chapter 21

**Chapter 21**

It was late afternoon, and Don sat in a waiting area near the psychiatric ward, Alan beside him. Alan was staring blankly out of the window, and Don regarded him for a moment, then bowed his head and rubbed his face. A short time ago, he had somehow remembered that he was supposed to be on a plane for Houston the next day, and had gone out to the SUV to retrieve his cell phone, which he had left in the vehicle in his haste that morning. He first called Merrick to explain what was happening. Merrick had told him to stay put, and that he would get on the phone with Dugan, to see if Don could delay his testimony.

He then scanned the messages on his phone, most of which were from Megan, and called her. It was somehow more difficult to explain the situation to her, and he wasn't sure that he was quite coherent, but she had seemed to grasp the main points, and agreed to pass on his message to Colby and David. He was thinking back over the conversation, his head bowed, when he suddenly heard her voice, and he looked up to see her approaching, followed by Colby and David.

Megan eyed Don with concern as she drew near. He looked exhausted, stretched thin, and his eyes reflected what had to be indescribable pain. "Don," she said, as he rose wearily. "How is he?"

He shook his head mutely, and then sat, as if his legs couldn't hold his weight. Megan crossed to Alan and put a hand on his shoulder, and he started, coming out of his grim reverie, and looked at her with surprise. "Hey, Alan," she said softly. She leaned over and gave him a hug, which he accepted wordlessly.

She stepped back, and Don finally found his voice. "You didn't need to come." He eyed Colby and David. "Especially you two. I know you need to get ready to leave." His eyes rested on Colby. "I'm sorry. I know you want to put that hearing behind you. Dugan's checking to see when I can-,"

Colby interrupted him gently. "It's okay. Merrick caught us before we left. Dugan thinks that they can get by with submitting your written report, considering the circumstances. Even if they can't, it's not a big deal. They'll just finish it up when you can get to it." He looked around. Megan and David had sat down in some chairs facing Don and Alan, and Colby dragged another one over to the group and joined them.

Megan sat silently for a moment; then looked at Don. "You weren't entirely clear on the phone. What exactly happened?"

Alan rose. "I think I'm going to take a walk," he said quietly.

Don looked at him, concerned, but his father nodded, a brief gesture of reassurance, before he turned. Don began speaking, still eyeing his father as he walked away. "The doctors are telling us that Charlie-," he turned back to face them, then swallowed and looked down, "- has suffered a psychotic break."

He paused, and they waited silently for him to continue. "Apparently some time Monday, Charlie stopped taking his medication – all of it. He was supposed to ramp down gradually, but for some reason, he decided not to. Dad said he was up all of last night with horrible nightmares – the doctors think now that that was the start of the – break. This morning he -," his voice shook, and he stopped and rubbed his face.

With an effort, he continued. "He lost it. He got violent, trashed his room, and while Dad was on the phone with me, he went downstairs and got a knife. He locked himself in my old room. By the time we got the door open, he was –," he paused, trying to find words. "He was mutilating himself."

He could see the shocked look on his agents' faces, and he continued; his voice reflecting the horror of the scene. "He thinks he's Mansour - he was trying to cut-," He felt tears start in his eyes, and suddenly overcome, he stopped, and bowed his head, covering his face with a shaking hand. Megan felt tears sting her own eyes, as she waited for him to collect himself.

After a moment, Don ran a hand over his face and cleared his throat. "We got him to the hospital – he had to go into surgery – he had lost a lot of blood. I guess his heart stopped on the table, but they got it started again. He's stable physically now, but in an intensive care unit in the psych ward. They have him – they have him restrained. They can't sedate him because it could aggravate the imbalance of chemicals."

There was silence for a moment; then David spoke, his brow furrowed. "How do they- ," he searched for a way to say it, "- fix this?"

Don sighed. "They put him back on the medicine. They're hopeful that since it seems to have been caused chemically, that they can reverse it chemically. In fact, they said most of the time, that's the case."

"Most of the time," repeated Colby, unconsciously echoing Don's reaction to that statement earlier.

Don took a deep shaky breath. "In a small percentage of cases, they can't."

They sat quietly for a moment, processing the disturbing information; then Megan asked, "How long does it take to reverse it?"

"Three to four days. They said we should begin to see improvement before then, maybe in a day or two." He stopped, thinking of Charlie writhing in his private hell. Even a day seemed too long. "Right now, we're waiting for a report from the doctors. They saw evidence of pneumonia in his chest X-ray this morning. They were going to run a comparison with the X-rays that were taken in Santa Barbara." His voice was toneless, deadened by too much shock.

"Have you seen him since he got out of surgery?" asked Megan.

Don paused, and she could see the horror in his eyes. "We went in for a minute. He was…screaming. It was pretty hard to take. The doctors don't recommend that we visit."

He bowed his head, and David and Colby exchanged a dismal glance. Megan's attention was captured by a doctor approaching. "Is that his doctor?"

Don turned and saw Dr. McIntire heading their way with a brisk step. He rose, looking around for Alan; then stepped forward to meet the doctor. They spoke briefly and Don returned, looking tired and defeated. "It's definitely pneumonia. They think it looks worse than it did on the first X-rays, and his fever's up. They're going to switch him to a stronger antibiotic."

He didn't tell them that he had learned that Charlie was still raving, still out of his mind. He didn't have the strength. He wasn't sure that he had the strength to tell Alan that his brother's condition was deteriorating.

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Don stirred and shifted on the waiting room sofa, and winced as his stiff muscles complained at the movement. It was still dark outside, but the incoming hospital staff indicated that it was morning. At around eleven the previous night, he had ferried his father home. Alan concerned him; his father was exhausted, subdued, and barely communicating, adrift in his own world. He hadn't lost the pasty gray look, and Don worried about the toll that the situation was taking on him. He knew that his father had been up all night the previous night, and tried several times to talk him into going home and getting some rest. Finally, late last night, Alan had conceded, and let Don drive him home.

When they got there, Alan had gone up immediately and collapsed on the bed, still dressed. Don gently worked off his shoes, and pulled the covers over him. He stood for a moment, his mind exhausted, spinning without traction, thinking of nothing, at least nothing comprehensible. After a moment, he became aware that he was just standing there, and forced himself to move. He stepped out of the room and paused in the hallway, his eyes straying to the door to his room, remembering the horror of the morning with a shudder. He stepped over to the room and pulled the door shut, quietly, then headed back downstairs, and out of the house, closing the door gently behind him. Someone should be at the hospital, he felt, in case. In case of what, was a question he refused to consider.

Now, apparently, it was morning. He looked again at the window and noticed that blackness outside was beginning to lighten. He pulled himself up slowly to a sitting position, rubbed his face, and stood, preparing to go in search of coffee. He would get his sluggish brain moving again, and then get an update on Charlie's condition.

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Alan had awoken with a start, and then an overwhelming feeling of dread, at a few minutes before nine. His mind was flooded with the images of the day before, and he jumped out of bed, consumed with the need to find out how Charlie was doing. Glancing at the clock, he mentally cursed himself for sleeping so long. He called for Don, and when he got no answer, headed for the shower, haphazardly grabbing clean clothes on the way. He had thought that Don was going to stay at the house, and the fact that his son hadn't both concerned and irked him. Halfway to the shower, he stopped, as sense returned to his sleep-fogged mind, and headed back into his bedroom and picked up the phone, and dialed Don's cell phone.

Don had little news to offer. There had not been much change; none from a mental standpoint, and little from a physical standpoint, except for a slight increase in Charlie's fever. Alan sagged visibly at the news; he had been hoping for improvement in his son's mental state. He showered hurriedly and dressed, and headed for the hospital. He was filled with a new resolve, which strengthened with each minute. He wanted to see his son, and he was going in that room and speaking to him, no matter what it took.

He arrived at the nurse's station in the psychiatric ward to find Don and Bradford standing in the hallway. Bradford looked tired, and Don looked disheveled and exhausted, but a bit of the tension in his face disappeared when he saw Alan.

"Dad," he said, by way of greeting. "How are you feeling?"

"Fine," said Alan, thinking to himself that how he felt was a non-issue. He looked at Bradford. "How is Charlie?"

Bradford looked at him, his face drawn with concern and fatigue. "Not much change, I'm afraid. I spoke to McIntire and to Michaels this morning. McIntire is concerned about the pneumonia. It doesn't seem to be responding to the antibiotic, and he said he's preparing to start a different one if he doesn't see improvement by noon. Michaels told me that there is no identifiable improvement in his mental status."

He paused, taking in the look of disappointment on Alan's face, of the fear in his eyes, and continued, with despair and regret in his own. "Mr. Eppes, I want you to know that I hold myself responsible for this -," Alan began to protest, but Bradford held up his hand, and spoke over his objections.

"I should have outlined for Charlie the risks of not following instructions concerning the medicine. I told him he needed to ramp down gradually, but I never told him why, what the consequences might be. After his impulsive trip to Los Padres, and his push to try to make himself heal faster, I should have considered that he might try to speed up the withdrawal. I also should have taken into account the fact that he has not been himself; he has not been thinking rationally. I'm sure he figured that stopping cold turkey might be uncomfortable, but he never realized that it could be so dangerous."

Alan looked at him, and felt sympathy stir amidst his own pain as he saw the tortured look on Bradford's face. "The bottom line," Alan said quietly, "was that Charlie didn't follow the instructions you gave him. You didn't mislead him."

His words did nothing to alleviate the pain in Bradford's eyes. "I know. I should have been more explicit, however. No matter how this turns out, I just don't want you to blame your son."

'_No matter how this turns out.' _The words echoed in Alan's mind. '_He doesn't think Charlie will pull out of this. He's trying to prepare us.'_ He could see from the anguished look on Don's face that he had come to the same conclusion. Alan fought down rising fear. Bradford was wrong. Charlie was going to make it, and Alan was going to do everything in his power to help.

He looked at Bradford, and spoke steadily. "I appreciate that. However, I blame no one; not you, and not Charlie. And now, if it can be arranged, I would like to see him."

He saw a look of concern flash over Don's face, but Bradford regarded him levelly, and then nodded. "Very well." He turned and stepped over to the nurse's station.

A few moments later, they stood outside the doorway with an intern in attendance. Don stepped closer to his father and murmured quietly. "Dad, are you sure you want to do this?"

Alan shot him a glance, calm and full of purpose. "It's not a question of what I want to do, Donnie. It's what I need to do. I realize that it may not help him, but if there is even a slight chance that it will, then I need to be with him." He nodded, and the intern opened the door.

Alan stepped into the room. He had tried to prepare himself, but the sight of his son still made his breath catch. Charlie's eyes were bright with fever, and he looked pale and exhausted, but he still writhed weakly against his bonds, crying out in a hoarse voice. Don took one look, and the sight hit him with the force of physical blow. He stepped backward, wordlessly, involuntarily, and the door shut in his face.

Alan stood still for a moment. Charlie was twisting his head from side to side, crying out; screaming the word 'no' with each rotation of his head. He suddenly stopped moving his head and addressed his screams to the ceiling, an agonized plea in his voice. "Make it stop! Please, make it stop!" The scream ended in a choked sob, and tears began streaming down his face as the sobs continued, deep wracking cries of agony that brought tears to Alan's own eyes.

He stepped forward, and clasped his son's hand, and Charlie gripped him convulsively, so hard that it hurt. "Charlie," he said gently, his voice breaking, his face contorted with pain.

Charlie didn't respond to his voice. Instead he continued to sob, his tortured eyes on the ceiling. "Make it stop," he pleaded again, and the words stabbed at Alan's heart. He would give anything in the world to make it stop, and the knowledge that he couldn't filled him with despair.

Don stood outside the doorway, his mind reeling. He felt he should be inside with his father, but he could not physically bring himself to move, to go inside. The sight of his brother was too painful. The door opened again as the intern stepped out, and Don caught an image that would remain with him for the rest of his life. His brother lay sobbing in his restraints, and Alan stood, his profile to Don, helplessly holding Charlie's hand, tears streaming down his grief-stricken face. The door closed again, and Don stood for a moment, the heartbreaking image seared into his brain. He turned mindlessly, automatically, and made his way blindly down the hall, headed nowhere, headed anywhere but there.

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End Chapter 21


	22. Chapter 22

**Chapter 22**

Don finally managed to drag Alan from the torture chamber at mid-afternoon. He had returned several times, trying to talk his father into taking a break, but Alan refused to leave Charlie's side. He had endured hours of ranting, screaming, muttering, sobbing, trying his best to get through to Charlie, to get him to respond to his voice. The only reason he conceded to leaving was that he knew he needed to take care of some minimum physical needs if he was to continue. He hadn't eaten anything to speak of the day before, and nothing that day, and he finally agreed to sit, take a break and make an attempt at eating a sandwich.

He sat with Don in the waiting area, mechanically chewing a bit of sandwich, and Don watched him with concern. He could see the stress in his father's face, and he swallowed a dry lump of his own sandwich and spoke softly. "You okay, Dad?"

Alan came out of his thoughts, and his eyes found his son's face. "Yes, Donnie, I'm fine." The strain in his voice belied the words.

Don paused for a moment. "What did the doctors say?" McIntire and Michaels had both been in the room shortly before noon, and Don knew that they had spoken with Alan. Don had gotten brief updates from one of the nurses, but he wanted details.

Alan sighed and rubbed his face. "Charlie's fever is climbing. McIntire changed his antibiotic at noon." His stomach twisted as the vision of his son's pale face, ravaged by fever, mirroring his fight against the terrors in his head, rose in his mind, and he fought to bring his attention back to the conversation. "Michaels is still saying that there's no identifiable progress, but I'm not so sure."

Don stared at him. "What do you mean?"

"Well, it is hard to tell," Alan conceded. "He keeps changing from one topic to the next, and his emotions keep fluctuating. But yesterday, he was fixated on that…Mansour. This morning, he went into that mode a couple of times, but the rest of the time he was speaking as himself. Not making any sense whatsoever, but at least it was Charlie talking." _'Or screaming, or crying,' _he added to himself, sadly. "He hasn't said anything related to Los Padres since ten this morning."

Don stared at his half-eaten sandwich, considering the implications of the information, and Alan continued. "The other thing is; McIntire said his fever is high enough to be possibly inducing some delirium. He could be getting better, and we may not even know, because the delirium from the fever is masking his progress." He fell silent, and then took another bite of his sandwich, chewing thoughtfully, his eyes on the floor.

Don glanced at him, wondering how much of the conjecture was his father's wishful thinking. It made sense, though, and for the first time, he felt a glimmer of hope. Along with it came the sudden desire to see for himself, and it spurred his next statement. "Dad, maybe I should sit with him for awhile."

Alan looked at him, and shook his head. "I don't know, Donnie. It's very…hard." He looked away. "It's bad enough that one of us will have to live with these memories."

Don stared back at him silently. His father was going through hell, and his brother was living in it. He was part of this family too, he thought. Why should he be exempt? He was filled with a sudden conviction, a need to participate, to shoulder some of the burden. Of course it was difficult. That hadn't stopped his father, had it? He faced Alan and spoke firmly. "No, Dad, it's my turn. You did it; so can I."

Alan shook his head again. "No Donnie, there's no need-,"

"Dad, I want to. I need to know that I did something to help, or at least tried."

Alan gazed at him, his heart torn. He knew exactly how his son felt, but he was reluctant to subject him to the pain that he had gone though that day. Don held his gaze, his eyes steady, and Alan sighed. "All right," he said. "But I think I should go back in with you."

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It was as bad as Don expected, and his expectations were terrible. Charlie looked awful, thin, pale, his hair tangled and matted, stubble covering his face, his lips dry and cracked. As soft as the bindings appeared, his skin was chafed and red underneath them. His eyes were the worst; they were underscored by dark circles, unnaturally bright with fever, and not focused on anything in the room. Instead, they were filled with the tortured visions that came from his mind in an unrelenting stream.

When they entered, he was rambling in a voice that was at best hoarse, and at worst just a croak; his vocal cords decimated by the bouts of screaming. He was panting, his chest rising and falling with an exaggerated effort, as if he couldn't get enough air. The ramblings degenerated into a coughing fit, a horrible choking cough that left Charlie weak and gasping. Don swallowed hard, wondering how much of the breathing difficulty was due to the pneumonia. He stepped forward toward the bedside, trying to catch his brother's eye. "Charlie. Charlie, it's Don."

He was greeted with a low moan, and Charlie turned his head away, then back, his eyes roving. He began mumbling again, an incoherent stream of something numerical, some type of equation; that quickly changed to a disjointed discourse on flight recorders. Don listened intently, trying to follow the words, looking for any glimmer of sanity, any thread of logic.

Alan pulled up a chair. "You might as well sit down," he said wearily. No sooner had he done so himself, when the door opened, and Dr. McIntire entered, followed by Michaels, and intern and a nurse. Alan rose immediately and Don turned.

Dr. McIntire spoke. "We need to make an assessment of Charlie's condition, and he needs a breathing treatment. You can stay if you like, but you may find it disturbing. We need to secure his head during the treatment."

Alan had already been present during one of those. His eyes found Don's. "It might be a good idea to leave," he said quietly.

"No, I'll stay," Don answered with quiet conviction. Michaels was watching him, and he returned his look with just a touch of defiance.

"All right," said McIntire. "Please step back." He and the intern moved forward, and Don noticed that the intern was holding some kind of brace. McIntire slid his hands under Charlie's head, lifting it, and Charlie immediately tensed and tried to twist his head out of his grip. "This doesn't hurt him," McIntire assured them; "he is just instinctively fighting the restraint."

The intern slid the brace under his head. It rested on his shoulders and came up around the sides of Charlie's face, preventing him from turning his head from side to side. The intern pulled a strap across his forehead to secure it. Charlie was beginning to struggle as best he could against the restraints, and his eyes grew wild. "No!" he yelled. His cries were muffled as the intern placed a mask over his face, and puffs of mist filled it. Charlie's eyes were frightened, agonized, above the mask, and Don felt a stab of pain at the mental torture his brother was undergoing.

He stepped forward instinctively to the head of the bed, out of the way of McIntire, and reached a hand out, gently touching his brother's forehead. Charlie flinched, but then began to calm a bit, his ragged breathing slowing. McIntire adeptly inserted a thermometer through an opening in the brace and into Charlie's ear. His face was expressionless as he read the result.

Alan watched him anxiously. "What is it?"

"One hundred and five point one." He exchanged a glance with Michaels and then looked at Alan. "It's still rising. I'll need to apply cooling packs to help control it."

Don felt his heart drop, and Alan turned pale, his voice shaking just a bit. "The new antibiotic isn't working?"

"Not necessarily. It takes time," said McIntire gently. "It may take until this evening to see results. We'll try to keep his fever under control in the meantime. We checked his oxygen levels earlier, and they are low. I'm going to leave the brace on, because I'm going to need to put him on some supplemental oxygen."

Charlie had begun moaning under the mask, and as the intern removed it, the moans transformed into words of a sort, but they were so badly slurred they were unintelligible. His eyes traversed the room and then would drift shut, then open again, wandering. Dr. McIntire stepped out with the intern to give him some instructions, and Dr. Michaels stepped up to the bed. He leaned over Charlie, his face inches away.

"Charlie. Charles Eppes," he said in a loud voice. Charlie blinked, but his eyes traveled sideways, then up, anywhere but Michaels face, and he muttered under his breath. Michaels looked at Alan, and indicated that he should move next to the bed. As Alan did, Michaels spoke again. "Charlie. Look at us. Who is this, Charlie?"

Charlie blinked and his eyes drooped shut. They opened again, but remained unfocused.

"Charlie, look at me," said Alan. He tried vainly to keep the imploring note out of his voice.

Michaels motioned for Don to step around to the side of the bed, next to Alan, and Don did so, leaning forwards so that Charlie could see him. "Charlie, who is this?" said Michaels, watching Charlie's face intently.

Don's heart began beating a little harder. '_Come on Charlie. Look at me. Say something.' _

Charlie's eyes drooped and closed, then drifted open again, focused blankly on the wall at the foot of the bed. He muttered something, but it didn't resemble a name; it didn't even sound like a word. There was no sign of recognition, or of the fact that he even understood he was being spoken to. Michaels frowned and sighed. "We should have been seeing some improvement by now."

Don sent him a worried look, and then turned back to Charlie. Michaels watched Charlie intently for a moment. "He does seem to be calming down a bit. I'm afraid it might be the effects of the pneumonia, however; weakness and fatigue generated by his illness." He shook his head and sighed again. "I'm sorry, but at this point I can't say that there is any definable improvement." He turned to go, and Alan followed him.

"He is speaking as himself more," Alan said as he followed Michaels out of the door. "He hasn't spoken as Mansour since this morning…." His words trailed off as the door shut behind them.

Don stood, feeling tears rising as a sudden wave of despair washed over him. He watched Charlie struggle to open his eyes again, and he leaned forward, desperately. "Charlie. Look at me. Charlie, who am I?"

Charlie's eyes came to rest on him, and Don's heart beat anxiously. "Charlie, who am I?" His brother frowned slightly, his eyes drifting away, and Don's heart sank; then rebounded again painfully as Charlie's eyes found his again.

The frown relaxed, and a single sound came from Charlie's lips. "s'Don."

Don's heart leapt. "What! Charlie, say it again. Who am I?" He gripped the bedrail, his eyes locked on Charlie's, but his brother's eyes slowly shut again. "Charlie, wake up. Charlie!" He stood frozen for a moment, his breathing quickening, and when he saw no further response, he dashed for the door. "Dr. Michaels? Dad, wait…" His words died off as the door swung shut behind him, and quiet took over. The only sound remaining in the room was Charlie's labored breathing.

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End Chapter 22


	23. Chapter 23

**Chapter 23**

The brief moment of recognition proved to be disappointing. Charlie's level of consciousness had declined; the majority of the time he was out; pushed into a dead sleep by exhaustion and the fever, and when he woke, he was barely conscious, his eyes drifting and roving weakly for only a few moments before sleep claimed him again. Once or twice he muttered something, but it was muffled by the oxygen mask, and didn't appear to be intelligible anyway. Don and Alan remained glued to his side, hoping for another episode of awareness, but none came.

They left the room only once; Megan stopped by for an update at around seven, and had brought food with her, and they stepped out briefly to talk to her and eat. She had gotten a call from Colby; the hearing had started that afternoon and seemed to be going well, and Colby thought they would be finished the next morning.

Concern over the pneumonia was consuming Alan; Charlie's fever was still unbearably high in spite of the cooling packs, and Alan watched anxiously every time a temperature reading was taken, hoping for a downward trend. Finally, at around one-thirty in the morning, the fever showed signs of reversing; it was down a full degree. The night nurse smiled as she gave them the news, and then suggested that they go out to the waiting room to try to get some sleep. She promised them, she said, that she would come get them personally if there was any change.

At five in the morning, Alan felt someone shake his shoulder, and he became dimly aware that his face was pressed into the vinyl of the waiting room sofa. He woke, confused, and sat up trying to gather his thoughts, staring at the night nurse. Fear suddenly gripped him as he recognized her face. "Is it Charlie? What's happening?"

She looked at him, and he could see emotion in her eyes, as she spoke words that he would never forget. "Mr. Eppes, your son is awake. He's asking for you."

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Once Alan had collected himself, he lurched off the sofa and woke Don. Don staggered to his feet, shock and hope in his face, and they took off at trot for Charlie's room, the night nurse jogging alongside, imploring them to slow down. "I've called Dr. Michaels," she said breathlessly as they came into the corridor. "Your son seems confused but perfectly rational. I've asked the doctor for permission to remove the restraints. He's on his way to the hospital now so he can evaluate him."

Alan didn't wait for her to open the door. He pulled it open with as much of a jerk as the air piston would allow, the force of it almost pushing him backwards into Don. Charlie turned toward the movement, and his eyes found his father's. The nurse moved to his side, and gently removed the oxygen mask. "Dad?" Charlie said hoarsely, shakily.

It was at once the sweetest and most poignant word that Alan had ever heard. His son was conscious again, rational, and speaking to him, but the terrified and bewildered look in his eyes was heartbreaking. Alan rushed to his side, and grasped his tethered hand. "Charlie, oh my God, Charlie…" Tears started in his eyes as he searched his son's face, devouring it, drinking in the focus, the rationality that had returned to his eyes.

Don stood behind his father for a moment and then eased next to the bed. He was vaguely aware that his knees were trembling, but like Alan; he was riveted by the sight of Charlie's eyes, reveling in the return of the sanity he saw in them. He spoke with an effort, his voice hoarse with suppressed feeling. "Charlie - welcome back." The words were short, and seemed pitifully ineffectual, but emotion had made him almost incapable of speaking.

Charlie stared back at them, confusion and fear in his face. The shock of finding himself in restraints had left him terrified and wordless. He swallowed, aware of the rawness in his throat. "What happened?" he rasped weakly, his eyes traveling from his father to Don and back again. A feeling of dread rose in him.

Alan heard a movement behind him as an intern entered the room, but ignored it, and releasing Charlie's hand, spoke soothingly. "You had a reaction to stopping your medications. Don't worry about it now. We can explain it later."

Charlie began to speak, but a fit of coughing overtook him; a harsh deep cough that lasted several seconds, and when it was over, he laid his head back, gasping. His hands twisted uncomfortably in the restraints, and a look of desperation fueled by claustrophobia came over his face. "Why are these on? Can they take them off?" he asked; his voice weak and panicky, his chest heaving.

Don looked at the intern. "Can you take the restraints off?"

The intern shook his head apologetically. "I'm sorry; Dr. Michaels needs to assess him first. I can remove the head brace, but we need to put his oxygen mask back on."

Alan looked at Charlie, pity in his face. "I'm sorry son; we have to wait just a few more minutes." The intern stepped forward and gently slid the brace out, pulling the oxygen mask back on, and Charlie's breathing slowly eased, but his eyes remained dark and frightened above the mask. Alan stepped toward his head, and ran his hand soothingly through his son's curls, and Don moved forward and took Charlie's hand.

Charlie stared at them, trying to read their expressions. They both looked exhausted, and he could see the residual strain on their faces. His heart was thumping uncomfortably; spurred by the feeling of claustrophobia and the uneasiness of not knowing what had brought him there, but he found he was too weak to do anything but lie still, and eventually, his father's soothing touch began to calm him. By the time Dr. Michaels arrived, he was asleep again, his hand still clinging to his brother's.

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Several hours later, he sat propped against the bed, regarding Dr. Michaels. He had woken again an hour after Michaels arrived, and endured a battery of questions before the doctor removed the restraints. Another doctor, McIntire, had showed up shortly afterward, and had discussed Charlie's pneumonia with him, seemingly pleased with the progress. No one, however, would answer Charlie's questions on how he came to be there, why he had to be in restraints, and why there were bandages on his legs. Dr. Michaels had told him that he would discuss it with him later; when he felt he was ready. That statement did nothing to calm Charlie's rising anxiety.

He had spent the day taken by one coughing spell after another, and his head ached. His father and Don stayed with him, but were not allowed to answer his questions either, so although he was glad there were there; the conversation drifted into awkward silences. At times, he would catch either of them looking at him as if they were afraid he would vanish, which didn't do anything to sooth the uneasiness that had settled in his gut. He was extremely tired, and slept part of the time, and he was given two breathing treatments. Finally, that afternoon, McIntire had showed up and authorized the removal of the oxygen, and Michaels had arrived shortly afterward, and shooed everyone else out of the room.

Michaels regarded the man in front of him. He had discussed taking Charlie on as patient several days ago with Bradford, and he was aware of the fact that he was finally getting to meet him, the real him, the rational Charlie. Judging by Charlie's answers to his questions that morning, and his behavior throughout the day, Michaels had judged that his patient was ready to be told what had happened. He began by easing into it. "How are you feeling?"

Charlie grimaced slightly. "I've been better."

"I'm curious; did Dr. Bradford mention my name to you?"

Charlie nodded. "He gave me your card at my appointment. I was going to call you…" he frowned as he tried to collect fragmented memories.

A cough shook him, and Michaels waited until it subsided. "When is the last time you took your medication?"

"Monday," said Charlie. A slight look of guilt crossed his face, and he frowned. "What day is this?"

"Friday," replied Michaels calmly, watching his reaction.

Charlie stared back at him, trying to process the information. "Friday? How long have I been here?"

"You were brought in Wednesday morning. What is the last thing you remember, and when?"

Charlie frowned in concentration. "It must have been Tuesday night. I went to bed…"

"Did you take anything before you went to bed?"

Charlie nodded slowly, his eyes on his knees. "Sleeping pills. I took two of them-," he broke off suddenly and looked up. "Is that what did this? Did I have a reaction to the pills?"

"That probably contributed, but it wasn't the main cause. The main cause was stopping the Lorazepam abruptly."

Charlie looked at him with confusion. "I still don't understand what happened. I remember having withdrawal symptoms, but …" he waved a hand helplessly; then looked at Michaels. "What did happen?"

Michaels sighed deeply and studied him for a moment. "I'm going to tell you, but you need to be prepared. The information will be shocking."

Charlie stared back at him, a feeling of fear rising. '_Shocking,' _he thought uneasily._ 'Not uncomfortable, not disturbing. Shocking.'_ He took a deep breath, and fought down a cough and his growing feeling of dread. "Okay."

Michaels piercing gray eyes narrowed. "You can stop me at any time, if this gets too uncomfortable for you." At Charlie's nod, he continued. "One of the side effects of stopping Lorazepam suddenly, particularly at the doses you were on, is the inducement of a psychotic break. Do you know what that is?"

Charlie paled, and his voice was nearly a whisper. "Yes."

"In your case, I believe a break was inevitable, but the fact that you took the sleeping pills made it certain. The symptoms started Tuesday night after you went to bed. You began having horrible nightmares, broken by episodes of semi-consciousness. By morning, you had degenerated into a full fledged break."

"I don't remember," Charlie said weakly. Guilt descended like a cloud, as the realization that whatever had happened, he had caused it by not taking his medicine.

"It's very unlikely that you would." Michaels paused. The details were going to be very difficult to deliver, and even harder for Charlie to receive. His patient had looked down for a moment, and Michaels waited until Charlie's eyes found his again.

"You were taken by the delusion that you were Mansour. You found a knife and locked yourself in a bedroom. By the time your brother, your father, and Dr. Bradford got into the room, you had slashed your legs and ankles in several places."

The blood left Charlie's face, and he stared in horror. Michaels continued, watching his patient intently. He didn't want to induce shock with the news. "Your brother managed to get the knife from you, and they brought you here. You were in critical condition from the blood loss, and needed surgery. After surgery, we put you here, in the psychiatric ward, and started your medication again to reverse the symptoms. The restraints were necessary because we couldn't sedate you; there was a chance that sedatives would make the chemical imbalances in your system worse."

"We then waited it out, until the medication started taking hold. The symptoms didn't begin to recede until sometime late yesterday, and then it was difficult to tell for sure. You have also been running a high fever due to the pneumonia, and that caused some delirium. Until the fever broke last night, you were still not thinking straight."

He paused and asked gently, "Do you have any questions so far?"

Charlie heard the last words from a distance. He felt nausea rising, and he stared blankly at his lap in shock.

"Charlie?"

He pulled his eyes up with an effort. Michaels regarded him with narrowed eyes. "I asked you if you had any questions."

Charlie throat contracted, and he somehow found his voice. "I was – violent?" He must have been, he thought; if he needed restraints.

Michaels nodded. "Yes."

"Did I – did I hurt anyone?" He watched Michaels' face and his heart plunged when he saw him look away.

Michaels looked back at him. "You slashed at your brother with the knife and gashed him in the side. It needed stitches, but it wasn't serious."

Not serious. He had stabbed his own brother, had obviously tried to kill him. Tears rose in his eyes and he doubled over, his hands clutching his stomach, as the reality rushed over him. Horror and grief took over, and he moaned. He had become the maniac that he had been fighting for so many weeks. He suddenly couldn't breathe, and a roaring started in his ears. He was dimly aware of hands on him, leaning him backwards, and a voice advising him to take a deep breath.

His vision began to clear, but the despair, the heaviness of the knowledge still sat like a weight on his chest. He found himself looking at Michaels, who was bending over him, watching him with concern.

Michaels saw awareness come back to his patient's eyes, and spoke earnestly. "Charlie, you need to understand that you had no knowledge of what you were doing. Your family understands that and accepts it; you need to also. Everyone's concern has been only that you recover. If for some reason you feel that you need to make it up to them, the best thing you can do is work hard to recuperate. Are you with me?"

Charlie swallowed and nodded miserably, unable to speak.

Michaels straightened. "We'll talk about how to do that over the next day or two. Is it okay if I send in your family?"

Charlie closed his eyes. His family. Dear God, what had he put them through? Grief was washing over him waves, and he fought back tears with an effort. "Yes," he managed, his voice thick, his eyes still shut.

He heard the sound of the door, and it repeated a second or two later, accompanied by the sound of light footsteps. He opened his eyes, and looked with anguish at his father and his brother. "I'm sorry," he whispered, as the tears began to stream down his face. "I'm sorry." He closed his eyes again tightly, his face twisted in sorrow and pain, and a moment later felt his father's arms around him, and the warm firm clasp of his brother's hand.

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End Chapter 23


	24. Chapter 24

**Chapter 24**

Alan took a swipe at the kitchen table with a rag, and turned toward the sink, his gaze automatically traveling through the doorway. His eyes brushed over his youngest son, who was seated on the sofa, scribbling something in a notebook, his dark head bent. Two months ago, Charlie had been released from the hospital, fall semester had just started, and he seemed to be transitioning well, thought Alan. Charlie had his full load of classes, but Millie had assigned his committee work, grad student mentoring, and special projects to others for the semester. He had been off the Lorazepam for three weeks, and had another month to go on the SSRI before Dr. Michaels began to pull him off that, but in general, the doctor was pleased with Charlie's progress.

Alan opened the utensil drawer, and his eyes fell on the new carving knife. He had thrown away the old one, but even the new one reminded him of the events of that horrible summer. His mind drifted back to the anxious days at the hospital, and the painful days that followed, as Charlie had tried to come to grips with the terrible events. In spite of Alan's and Don's protestations, it was clear that Charlie blamed himself entirely for what had happened. The first two days after he became aware of what had occurred, he retreated into himself, lying in a cesspool of guilt and sorrow.

As the week wore on, he became more verbal, but his conversations with Alan all centered on trying to find out what he had done while he was out, as Alan preferred to call it. It became clear that his son was engaging in some kind of self punishment, as if each new fact would reinforce the guilty perception he had of himself; and Alan refused to play. Alan had born the brunt of his son's insane rages, and he was sure that no good would come out of Charlie knowing exactly what he had done and said. In fact, no one knew most of it except Alan, and wild horses wouldn't drag it out of him. So he deferred and he dodged every time the questions came up, and eventually Charlie stopped asking.

The guilt was still there, though. Alan would catch it in unguarded moments; particularly when Charlie looked at Don, but he would sometimes catch a look directed at himself – the dark eyes filled with sorrow and remorse. Generally, though, Charlie had worked hard at getting well; in fact he was a model patient. He followed medication instructions to the letter, he meekly ate whatever Alan put in front of him; he went for his daily jog without fail.

He faithfully attended sessions with Dr. Michaels – now there was a good relationship, thought Alan. Bradford had been right; Michaels was perfect for Charlie, and the sessions had apparently been extremely helpful. Slowly, the defeated look abated, the burden of horror was lifted, and Charlie became more like himself. He was still a little on the serious side, but in the last two weeks, even that had improved. He was smiling more, there was a new calmness in his eyes; in fact, just this week he had even cracked a joke, Alan remembered with a smile.

He heard the door open, then Don's voice in the living room, and he smiled to himself. It was a beautiful Saturday afternoon, he was preparing dinner, and the simple evening they had planned together seemed like the most wonderful thing in the world.

Don stepped through the door, and was greeted by his brother's quiet smile. Ever since Charlie's break, each time Don looked at his brother he was hit by a wave of relief, of gratitude. He had his brother back, after weeks of looking at and dealing with a stranger, and somehow, every time he caught his brother's eyes, now normal, intelligent, and calm; the wonder of it hit him all over again.

Along with the profound feeling of relief always came an almost irresistible urge to hug him; as if he needed the reinforcement of contact to assure him that Charlie was really there. Hugs weren't something that Don had ever taken to before, and even now they usually took the form of an arm over the shoulders, and a playful squeeze, or maybe a quick pretend punch to the shoulder. In his sessions with Bradford, they had talked about the compulsive feeling that he had to protect his brother from the world in general. The events of the summer hadn't done anything to lessen that, in fact, they seemed to make it more profound. Don was aware that he was hovering, and he didn't care. He was just damn glad he still had a brother to hover over.

He smiled in return. "Hey, Chuck. How's it going?"

"Good," said Charlie. He set aside the notebook and stretched. "You're here early. I don't think Dad had dinner planned until six."

Don put on an exaggerated face, pretending to be affronted. "What, you think I only show up for food?" Charlie grinned back, and Don looked at him, his expression softening. "Actually, I was hoping you could help me with some homework."

Charlie quirked an eyebrow. "Homework? What, a case?"

"Not exactly," said Don. He pulled a folded paper from his back pocket. "Did Bradford send you something this week?"

Charlie looked back at him, with an unreadable expression on his face. "Yes," he said slowly, cautiously.

"It was a bunch of questions, right?" pressed Don.

"Yeah, something we did weeks ago. Why?"

"Well, I have a list of my own, and he gave me an assignment." Don shrugged. "He said it's really just a recommendation, and it's okay if you aren't up for it yet, but he wants us to go over them together. I thought maybe we could do that, or just sit and talk, you know…" he broke off, trying to sound noncommittal.

Charlie felt a little twinge of nervousness, but he matched his brother's nonchalant look. "Sure."

"Good," said Don. "So, I thought maybe we could go to the park." He sent a meaningful glance toward the kitchen, where he knew that Alan was preparing dinner.

Charlie followed his gaze. "Good idea. I'll get my paper."

He rose as Don poked his head in the kitchen. "Hi Dad, - hey, Charlie and I are going for a walk."

Alan raised his eyebrows, and shot him a bemused look; smiling. "Good, you can work up an appetite. And take out the trash while you're at it."

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It was a glorious afternoon; the heavens were as clear as an L.A. sky could get, and a balmy breeze ruffled the trees over the park bench. Charlie drank in the peaceful scene and the sunlight. When he had first come back from Los Padres, he couldn't jog in this area of the park; the wooded sections reminded him too much of the forest. Now, though, as he listened to the wind soughing in the branches, it seemed beautiful, soothing. He sighed, with a small smile, and caught his brother watching him. "What?"

Don shook his head smiling. "Nothing."

Charlie regarded him, and a sly grin crept over his face. "You aren't going to get all mushy on me with this stuff, are you?"

Don's heart sang at the glint of humor in his brother's eyes. Damn, it was good to have him back. "Not a chance. You're the mushy one."

"Since when have numbers been anything but logical? There's no mush in math," Charlie shot back grinning.

They both were well aware that they were stalling. An awkward silence descended, and Don rubbed the back of his head, a little nervously. "Okay, well. What did you put for the first one?" He stopped and snorted. "I feel like I'm asking for the answers to a biology test. I always used to ask you what you had put down after we took a test, to see how well I did."

Charlie smiled. "I remember." Silence fell again, and they each eyed the paper in the other's hands. Charlie took a breath and spoke first. "Okay, well, the first one was pretty easy. '_Do you consider yourself successful in your field?' _I said true."

"Yeah, me too," agreed Don. He read the next question. "_'You are more successful in your field than your brother is in his.' _"I said false."

Charlie eyed him. "Really?"

"Yeah, what, are you kidding me Charlie? What did you put?"

Charlie frowned at his paper, and Don craned his neck trying to see what was on it. Charlie sighed. "Well, Bradford and I kind of argued about this one. He finally asked who had more recognition, and ended up putting true for me, when I agreed that I did."

"Charlie, what's to argue? For Pete's sake, you're a phenomenon."

"Well, think about it. Sure, I'm well known in the math community, but you're just as successful at your job. Just because the FBI doesn't give out awards or give you the opportunity to write books doesn't mean you aren't successful. If you put both of us in lecture halls and had each of us give a talk on our jobs, how many people would pick your talk over mine? Most of them."

Don rolled his eyes, but he grinned. "I think you're selling yourself short. If you can explain complicated math to Colby and keep him from falling asleep, you can keep anyone entertained."

Charlie smile wryly. "Whatever. What's the next one?"

"'_Your brother is better with people than you are_.' I said false." Don looked at Charlie a little guiltily.

"Well, we agree on that one. I said true. There's no contest there."

"You know, you've gotten a lot better at it," Don said hastily. "At reading people. And God knows, you handle a roomful of students better than I ever could."

"That's okay, Don, you don't have to qualify your answer. That's one of the reasons you're so good at your job."

"Yeah, maybe," conceded Don.

"No, not maybe. I said you are, and I'm always right." Charlie grinned at him, his eyes glinting with humor.

Don smirked back. "Says who?" he shot back, but he felt unbridled happiness inside. This was the brother he had missed. To have him smiling and teasing again was priceless. Maybe this exercise wasn't so bad. "Okay, next. '_Your brother has more success with women than you do.'" _He paused.

"I said true," interjected Charlie.

"Well, maybe it was, once. I'm not so sure anymore."

"Oh come on. You're a lot smoother with women than I am." Charlie sighed. "I still get nervous around them; I even had a hard time making small talk with Amita. Starting a relationship just seems easier for you."

"Yeah, but have they gone anywhere? The relationships you did have lasted a lot longer than most of mine."

Charlie regarded him ruefully. "I think we both let work get in the way."

Don looked at his paper with a sardonic expression. "Yeah, well, that's not a question here."

"Here either. I mean when you think about the women I had serious relationships with – they were both from academia. I guess I kind of took for granted that work comes first, and since they were in similar careers, that they thought so too." A look of regret passed over Charlie's face. "Maybe if I hadn't taken Amita for granted, she wouldn't have gone looking for someone else."

Don grunted. "Don't blame yourself for that one. I think Amita just didn't know what she wanted."

"Yeah, I'm not so sure I did either," said Charlie, pensively. "You know, this is kind of related to the next question."

"'Y_our brother is more likely to get married than you.''_" Don grimaced. "I don't think either one of us is looking good there, at the moment."

Charlie smiled wryly and nodded. "That's what I said." He shook his head. "Poor Dad. He wants grandkids in the worst way."

Don grinned. "You first." He looked down at his paper, sobering. "Speaking of Dad, the next questions are about him and Mom. Oh, no, wait, there's another one before that. '_You are smarter than your brother.'" _

They both looked at their papers, and Charlie spoke quietly. "Well, while we're on the subject, let's talk about Mom and Dad and then go back to that one."

"Okay," Don agreed. "'_Your father cares about you._'"

"No question there. Dad's – incredible." Charlie fell silent for a moment, and his expression darkened. "There's no way I would have made it through all of that without him." He looked up at Don. "Or without you."

Don looked back at him, softness in his eyes. "That's what family's for, Chuck."

Charlie looked down and shook his head. "Family shouldn't have to go through that."

Don looked at his brother earnestly. He was well aware that Charlie continued to blame himself for what happened. "And neither should you. It happened, Charlie – there was nothing you could do about it."

Charlie grimaced. "I could have followed instructions."

"You didn't know what would happen," insisted Don. "Now you do. Not that you'll ever be in that situation again."

Charlie smiled sadly. "Actually, I might. In fact, both Dr. Bradford and Dr. Michaels said it will probably happen again." At Don's startled look, he jumped to explain. "Not the psychotic break. That was induced by the medicine. No, I mean the anxiety, the panic-attacks - my tendency to retreat into my numbers when I'm stressed."

He looked away, his face filled with sad acceptance, and Don was suddenly seized with the perception that his brother carried a burden that he didn't understand. "Why; because it happened before? Charlie, they can't know that for sure."

Charlie shrugged. "They don't, they admit it. They just say it's likely. Dr. Michaels says if it happens again, he won't be putting me on Lorazepam." He tried to smile, but it came out twisted. "Apparently, my brain is extremely sensitive to chemical stimuli." He cast a sideways glance at Don. "It means I'm easily addicted."

Don's brows drew together in concern, and Charlie looked away with a shrug, trying to look indifferent. "I guess that's why I've never been a big drinker. When I do drink, I get drunk easily. I imagine that I knew somehow, subconsciously, that it was something I should stay away from." He straightened, trying to lighten his expression. "Anyhoo, how did we get on this topic? We were talking about Dad."

"Yeah," said Don quietly. "Let's see, '_Your father cares about you more than your brother.'"_

They looked at each other and spoke at the same time. "I said he cares about us equally." "I said false, we're equal." They smiled at each other.

"Dad's awesome," said Charlie softly. He looked at Don as his brother scanned his paper. They were just scratching the surface with these questions, and he wondered if Don realized it. Even if he did, thought Charlie, this baring of thoughts about relationships wasn't exactly his brother's cup of tea. He probably wanted to get the assignment finished and be done with it. Even this much was good, though. He had to give Bradford credit.

Don glanced at him. "Now, Mom. There are three questions there. Why don't you go first?"

Charlie looked at his paper, scanning the questions, reading them silently to himself. '_Your mother loved you more than your brother.' 'Your mother spent more time with you than your brother.' 'No one has ever understood you as well as your mother.' _He looked up, and his eyes met Don's. "I said false for the first one, but true for the second one."

Don's eyes reflected just a hint of pain before a veil dropped over his face, and he looked off into the trees. "I said the same thing. I had a bit of discussion with Bradford over this, but in the end I came to the same conclusion."

Charlie looked at Don's profile, at the set jaw. "She loved you just as much, you know. I know she spent a lot of time with me, but she really did. She really missed you when we went away to Princeton."

Don shrugged. "She would have missed me anyway. I was going off to school myself. It really wasn't much of an issue." _'Except when I came home to visit; and she wasn't there.'_ He had gotten over that, pretty much, after the first year. It was the years away from home after that, and the knowledge that he couldn't get them back, that was hard to take. Not to mention the amount of time she had spent with Charlie during the years when they were growing up. Charlie had gotten so much more time with her than he had.

Don had fallen silent, and Charlie looked down at the paper, sadly. "I cheated you out of time with her. All of my – needs, my tutoring, got in the way. I imagine that you resent that." He looked up. "Do you ever wonder what it would have been like if Mom and Dad had just let me go through school like any other kid?"

Don shook his head. "Never. Did I resent the time Mom spent with you when I was younger? Yeah, actually I did, but I was a kid, and I didn't realize then what your gift really meant. Mom and Dad did, and they felt it was their job to make sure that it wouldn't go to waste." He looked at Charlie, intently. "I admit, I was jealous, there were times when I wished it was me that was the genius. It wasn't until I came back and we started working together that I understood that this was bigger than that, bigger than me, bigger even than you."

"I came to realize that your gift was something that was given to all of us. You happen to be the one that carries it, but it's all of our responsibility, not just yours, not just Mom and Dad's, but mine too, to deal with it. The world doesn't get a mind like yours very often, Charlie. Mom said once that we couldn't squander it, even if it meant making sacrifices. I know what she meant now."

He looked at Charlie intently. "I know that now that we're adults, that job falls mostly to you. I didn't realize until recently that it's not that easy; that maybe your gift is sometimes more of a curse." He paused as Charlie looked away, his face working with emotion, and then continued, "I just want you to know that I understand it a lot better now, and I'm here to support you. You're not alone with it."

He paused and looked at Charlie, who appeared to be struggling to keep his emotions in check. "So, I guess the situation with Mom, I understand it now. I realize why she did what she did. And I know she didn't love me any less for it." Charlie still hadn't spoken, and Don gently tried to prompt the conversation. "So, I imagine you said true to Mom understanding you best."

Charlie nodded, and Don regarded his brother's profile. "You still miss her."

Charlie's voice was husky with emotion. "Yes."

"Yeah, me too," admitted Don, softly. He cleared his throat. "I actually said false for that one. I said Dad probably understood me best. He spent a lot more time with me, running me to practices, games…. They kind of tag-teamed us, when you think about it. Mom with you, Dad with me." He smiled. "I think he still has a pretty good bead on me. Not much gets by him."

He looked back down at the questions. "So, we need to drop back to the question we skipped. '_You are smarter than your brother.' _Now there's a no-brainer. I said false. Well, first I looked at Bradford like he was an idiot for even asking the question, then I said false."

Charlie pulled himself together with an effort. "There's more than one kind of smart," he said. "You have more street smarts, you're smarter socially. That counts too."

"Not on tests, it didn't."

"But in the real world? Sometimes I think it counts more than academic intelligence."

Don looked at him, exasperated. "Charlie, you're a genius. I've got that, I can handle it. You don't need to make me feel better."

Charlie frowned. "I'm not. I mean, I really feel that way. I could never compete with you in that area. In school, it was – well it was painful. Getting A's on your tests doesn't mean a whole lot when nobody talks to you. You – you were like a king in school. Everyone looked up to you. They still do. Social intelligence gives you a lot of power."

Don shook his head. "Charlie-," he began, and then stopped. It was ridiculous to even argue this point, although he had to admit, it was a nice feeling to know his brother felt that way. "Let's just agree to disagree on this one."

They both stared at the remaining questions. They were getting tougher, a little more pointed. Don read from his page. "'_You look up to your brother._'" He cast a sideways look at Charlie. "I said true."

Charlie's eyebrows rose as he heard Don's response, and he eyed his response to the next question. "Uh, yeah, I said true also."

"'_Your brother looks up to you,'" _Don continued. He hoped so. "I said true."

"Uh, I wasn't too sure about this one," hedged Charlie. He looked at Don cautiously. "I said false."

"Charlie!" Don frowned in puzzlement, tinged with annoyance. "Why wouldn't you think I look up to you?"

"I don't know," said Charlie defensively. "I guess I figured that you did, as far as my math knowledge went. Sometimes, though, I get the feeling that you get irritated with me, that you think I'm, well, clueless."

"Why would you think that?" asked Don, a little irritably.

"You get a little bossy sometimes, demanding, when you think I'm not moving fast enough on a case. And sometimes when I'm presenting things, you get impatient or critical when you don't think it fits the investigation. Or occasionally you take the work that I did, and put it on the back burner."

Don stared at him a minute, scowling. "Well, sometimes you can be a little annoying that way. You come in full of some theory, and get pushy when we don't drop everything and jump right on it. We have to balance a lot of things in an investigation, and you don't always see that. Maybe I get a little irked, but it doesn't mean I don't look up to you."

Charlie pondered that for a moment. "I guess I didn't realize I did that. It is pretty exciting when you come up with a solution – maybe sometimes I do get a little overly enthusiastic."

"Pushy."

"Whatever." Charlie looked sideways at him, his brows drawn, and caught the glint of humor in his brother's eyes, and his scowl twisted into a grudging smile, as he realized he was being baited. He looked at the paper. "'_Your brother uses you.' _And the next one is similar. '_Your brother takes advantage of you._'" He paused, and waited.

"False, and false," said Don.

"False, and, uh, true," said Charlie, with a wary look sideways.

Don frowned. "You think I take advantage of you?"

"Sometimes," admitted Charlie. "You push me to take cases I don't have time for, to drop other things when you need something for an investigation."

Don sighed. "Yeah, I guess I can see that. It's just that, when people's lives are at stake, nothing else seems quite as important. I suppose I get a little demanding sometimes."

"Pushy," said Charlie, smirking.

"Smartass," Don shot, back. They grinned at each other. "Okay," he continued. "Next two – '_You would do anything for your brother.' 'Your brother would do anything for you.' _I answered true for both."

"So did I," said Charlie, softly. Their eyes held for a moment. He wasn't about to bring up the fact that for the second question he had said true for anything major, but that he wasn't sure about the little things. After everything that had happened, and the fact that his brother had been around a lot more lately, sharing some of the little things, that answer seemed no longer pertinent. He looked down and read. "'_You can never measure up to your brother.'"_

"You skipped a couple," Don said quietly.

Charlie shifted uncomfortably and looked away. "They're probably not relevant, anymore."

Don sent him a stern glance; then read. _"'Your brother has always treated you kindly.' 'You bear a grudge against your brother for how he treated you when you were young._'"

He looked at Charlie, his brows knit. "You think I didn't always treat you kindly?"

Charlie twisted his hands together. "You blew me off a lot. You had your own world, and you didn't really want me in it. I was the annoying little brother."

Don's forehead furrowed in concentration. He supposed that Charlie was right; in fact, he could remember trying to ditch his younger brother on numerous occasions. He didn't realize though, that it had made such an impact. "Well, you were quite a bit younger than me. A lot of older siblings don't want their younger ones tagging along." He looked at Charlie apologetically. "I guess I didn't know it bothered you so much."

"It is understandable," said Charlie. "It's just that… oh, just forget it; it's over. I don't bear a grudge, if you want the answer to the second question."

He looked away, but not before Don caught the look of sadness in his eyes. This really bothers him, he thought, with a sudden revelation; that brought with it a pang of regret. "No, we shouldn't forget it. We should talk about it. We've brought it up before, but we never really got into it. That's what we're here for."

Charlie sighed; then looked at Don earnestly. "It's just that most younger siblings have their own friends. I didn't. I was in your grade – I didn't really have friends my own age. You were it for me; if you didn't include me, there was nothing else." He looked away. "It got pretty lonely sometimes." A lot of the time, he added silently.

Don stared. Had he really been that selfish? "Charlie, I'm sorry, I guess I didn't realize – you always seemed so sure of yourself. You were never afraid to jump into conversations with anyone; you seemed to socialize okay at school– I guess I just didn't think…" He trailed off. Charlie never did bring friends home, and rarely went out with friends either, now that he thought about it. He had just assumed his brother was too busy with his extra studies. His heart sank as he studied Charlie, taking in the hurt that had been suppressed for so long.

Charlie shrugged, with a wan smile. "We both made sacrifices in those days. That was one of mine." He looked down, and spoke, trying to get the focus of off himself. "So what did you put down?"

"You always treated me kindly," Don said softly. Maybe too kindly. He remembered the eager offers to check his homework, to help him study. '_Charlie had been doing the only thing he could think of to get me to pay attention to him_,' he thought sadly. '_How could I have not seen that?' _

He swallowed. "My second question was a little different than yours. '_You bear a grudge against your brother for all the attention he got from your parents.' _We already talked about that one, when we talked about Mom and Dad." He gazed at Charlie, his face filled with regret. "I'm sorry Charlie, I didn't know-"

Charlie held up his hand, stopping him, and looked at him, with a wistful smile. "I think we've come past all of that."

Don sighed and looked at his paper. This had turned out to be more difficult than he thought it would. It was good though, in spite of being painful. He couldn't believe that they had never discussed these things before. "'_You can never measure up to your brother.'" _

"True," they both said at once.

Don shook his head. "Well, my response is understandable. It's pretty tough to measure up to a genius. We talked about that already."

Charlie smiled. "We talked about mine too. I told you how I looked up to you in school." His expression turned suddenly serious, and he held his brother's eyes. "I still do. I always will."

Don returned Charlie's gaze, and fought to control the wave of emotion than ran through him. He looked down and cleared his throat. "I guess there's just one more." He scanned the paper. "'_You love your brother more than he loves you.' _I actually said false, I said we cared about each other equally."

"That's what I answered, too," answered Charlie hastily. He stretched and rose from the bench. "Wow, look at the time. We'd better get back."

Don looked at him suspiciously. One thing hadn't changed – his brother was still a horrible liar. Without warning, he stood and snatched Charlie's papers from his hand. '_True,' _he read in Bradford's handwriting. '_It's always been that way.' _

He looked up from the page at Charlie, accusation and hurt on his face. "Charlie – first, I can't believe you said that, and second, you lied about your answer. Why?" Charlie looked down, and Don spoke impatiently. "You at least owe me an explanation."

Charlie shifted from one foot to another, uncomfortably. "It doesn't apply any more. I changed my mind since I answered it."

"That's no explanation, that's an excuse. Why did you say that to begin with?"

Charlie looked at him earnestly. "We talked about some of this already. Don, when we were kids, I adored you. We both know you didn't feel that way about me."

"The question wasn't asking about when we were kids."

"I know. When you came back and we started working together, I guess I liked to think that the situation had changed, that maybe you felt differently about it, but I was never sure." He looked at Don apologetically. "You're a pretty tough person to read."

Don frowned. "Charlie, I know I don't do a good job at communicating stuff like that, but-"

"Wait." Charlie stopped him. There was a plea in his voice. "You don't have to. Not anymore. Don, after the last few months, you don't have to talk about how you feel for me to know. Look, I was a mess after Los Padres. I was moody, anxious, unpredictable; I wasn't thinking straight. After the break I was downright dangerous. You were always there – through all of it. You found me when I ran off, you were there to pull me out of the surf; you were there to take the knife away from me. I stabbed you; I could have killed you – and you never left me. I know now. You don't have to say it." His passionate rush of words ended suddenly, and they stared at each other in silence. The sound of the breeze in the trees seemed to voice the surge and swirl of their feelings, the almost unbearable flow of emotion inside.

Don's heart was full, but somehow he found his voice. "No wonder you're always right. When you're not, you change your mind."

He smiled, and Charlie smiled back. "I'm not stupid."

They turned and fell into step beside each other, still smiling, and Don glanced at him. "Well, that wasn't bad for a first session."

Charlie looked back at him, eyebrows raised. "First session?"

"Heck yeah," said Don, teasingly, throwing an arm around his brother's shoulders. "We have issues to talk about. We're just getting started." He looked at his brother, his expression turning serious. "Really. This was good."

Charlie looked at him, grinning. "Now you're getting mushy on me."

"No way."

"Mushy."

"I'll show you mushy," growled Don, and he pulled in Charlie in tightly with his arm, in an exaggerated embrace. They both staggered, and Charlie laughed as they stumbled, then found their footing again. The sound mingled with the soft sigh of the breeze in the trees, as their branches swayed, waving and whispering peacefully against the soft blue of the sky.

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Finis


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